


A Laboratory for the End of the World

by IsThisNameTaken



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1908 Vienna, Academy setting, Historical Hetalia, Historical art, Humour, M/M, Politics, Sass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsThisNameTaken/pseuds/IsThisNameTaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aspiring musician and wealthy kin of aristocracy, Roderich Edelstein has been advised by his parents to take up the subject of art - an insurance career as his musical talent is ignored by the ignorant Viennese residents. Begrudgingly, he applies to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts, but what dark secrets will he find out about the city while a paintbrush moves elegantly in his hand?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Hello readers! I have been planning to start publishing this story on here for a while now, and thought it was about time I acted upon it. I hope you enjoy it - IsThisNameTaken

* * *

 

**Prologue**

.

.

.

**January, 1908. Eisenstadt, Vienna.**

The letter took its time to arrive at the Edelstein Manor, in Eisenstadt. But then again, Roderich mused as his mother handed him the envelope, in such a rural area post is delayed somewhat in transport.

He’d thought it would be just another letter from a relative, but upon glancing at the post-mark, he knew.

His heart began to race. He lowered himself gracefully into an armchair in his parents’ drawing room, the fine fabric cushioning his slight figure. Thin, strong fingers tore open the paper - he would waste no time looking for a damned letter knife.

 From behind wireframes, deep amethyst eyes scrutinized the content.

 

Roderich’s father, an ageing man of a stony personality, glanced to his son. “Well, Roderich? What was their reply?”

The young Austrian remained silent, his expression unreadable.

“Do tell us, dear,” Urged Frau Edelstein.

 

Suddenly, he jumped up, straightening his upper-class attire and adjusted his glasses. He laid the letter on the table for all to see.

 

“It appears the _Wien Mozart Orchester_ has higher standards than those I possess,” He announced briskly as he swept from the room, struggling to keep his composure.

.

.

.

He sat in his quarters, a great room large enough to accommodate his Grandfather’s grand piano as well as his bed, wardrobe and en suite bathroom.

Anyone who stepped into such a place would immediately realise this was the chamber of a man raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. Roderich Edelstein, an only child, expected to achieve greatness from a young age, was now eighteen summers old. 

He was naive, sharp-tongued, and in a state of ignosis about much of the world outside the manor grounds.

 

Except for his passion: music. He was very well-informed on that subject. Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin just to name a few, Roderich would spend hours at the piano every day, practising their compositions and sonnets until his fingers became sore.

 So honestly, when he applied and auditioned to join the Vienna Mozart Orchestra in December 1907, he had high hopes of a famous career in music.

 

Of course, having found out today that they would not have him, such a career was hurtling away from him.

_Eighteen years and still no solid future prospects_ , he thought idly as a pale palm came up to support his drooping head. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to stop the tears emerging.

Because he would not cry. Even though this was one of the last places he’d auditioned for, even though his last resort to success had failed, he would _not_ -

“Damn,” Muttered Roderich as he felt hot droplets of water fall onto his cheeks.

 

Such a proud person was he, that even the thought of a few tears threatened to humiliate him beyond belief, even if he was crying alone.

Simply choosing to pretend he was not blubbering like a child, Roderich made to sit at the stool of the grand piano, a brilliant ebony-and-ivory beast coated to a shine. But his fingers could not touch the keys; his mind could not think of the notes he should play.

 If music were his energy, then Roderich felt completely drained in that moment. Until he spotted a nearby fountain pen - a newly designed writing tool affordable only by the wealthy - and his spare blank sheet music.

He picked up the pen, admiring how delicate the pointed tip looked, before touching it to the paper. Roderich had been drawing for years, but he never before had felt the burning passion for artwork that he did for classical music. Still, today he did not want to write music, did not want to be reminded of letting down himself and his parents.

 He longed for a distraction, and so he focused on drawing something. Closing his eyes, he pictured the piano, saw the joints and reflections and shadows it would cast. He saw the gleam on the surface and the elegant, simple carvings on its sides.

 

Opening his eyes, he began to draw with a vengeance. He incorporated emotions into this picture, namely anger at not being able to achieve his dream, frustration at them not even appreciating the hours, the concentration, the _effort_ he’d put into that performance-!

 

Finally, shoulders slumping, the Austrian sat back from his finished work. An exact, precisely captured drawing of the piano rested on the paper, its lines bold and black from the pen’s ink. He knew he should have used an artist’s pencil but he had been too desperate to draw something.

The picture looked, well, _menacing_.

 

Somehow, using his unbridled anger and talent for putting mind to paper, he had managed to make a piano look aggressive. The thought made him scoff. _I really do not understand art._

 

Later that day, at dinner, few words were spoken between the three Edelsteins. Roderich’s parents always proved terrible at consoling people, and so decided not to mention the letter.

“Roderich, dear, you should try to eat more meat,” Advised Frau Edelstein from across the fancy dining table, “you’re dreadfully thin.” 

Said son prodded at the vegetables on his plate with his fork. “I am of a perfectly healthy weight, Mother. Do not worry.”

 

With a sympathetic smile, his mother relented. Roderich secretly knew he was becoming unhealthy, what with his stressed lifestyle of perfecting the work of composers, the long waking hours, lack of sleep and vitamins...but he felt he was making a necessary sacrifice.

Now was Roderich’s father’s turn to speak. “Son, the maids were cleaning your bed quarters today and, well, one of them found this,” He held aloft the sheet of music paper. “I hope you do not mind, she merely wanted to protect it from getting damaged.”

Roderich frowned in confusion. It was his piano drawing. “Ah, no, I do not mind,” He answered, “but that really is of no importance to me. It can be burned -”

“How could you say that?” Blurted his mother. Strange, she spoke that sentence in English. What with living in Austria, the family never needed to speak anything other than German. Still Roderich frowned. _All this fuss over a bloody drawing?_

“E-excuse me,” She apologised, returning to German. “I only protest because it is a beautiful piece, Roderich.”

“In fact, you have been kindling your art skills more than ever over these past few years, “ Added his father, “the portraits you made of the Zwingli siblings were wonderfully painted.”

 

“Thank you, Father, but-”

 

“You really do have a talent for the fine arts,” Finished Frau Edelstein, once more interrupting him. For all he’d been taught, that interruption was rude, it seemed his parents were being very hypocritical right now.

Then he set his cutlery down. _Fine_ _arts_. He recognised that phrase.

 

And then it occurred to him what his parents were doing. He looked to them both. “No.”

 

Both looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” Queried his father.

Roderich wore a tight-lipped expression. “I will not consider a career as an artist. No.”

The wool was lifted from his eyes, and his parents dropped the act. His mother again began,“You are so good at drawing, at painting, we just thought -”

“No.”

His father wore a pitied look. “Come now, Roderich, why not try it?”

“No.”

Sighing, both older Austrians shared a glance. “I would urge you to reconsider,” Herr Edelstein started, “you see, Roderich, we have…”

“Already looked into getting you a place at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts,” Finished Frau Edelstein, her greying hair falling untidily out of its bun. They sight of grey hairs reminded the young man that he was not getting any younger. And if he did have talent, as so many relatives had said… “But, I...I had hoped to be a composer. Or pianist.”

“You are already an able pianist.”

 

Another scowl. “I meant _professionally_ , Mother.”

 

“You of all people understand how hard it is to gain that calibre of career in a musical city such as Vienna, or in a country like Austria,” Pointed out his father carefully, “and you have had success as a musician, just not to the level you were expecting.”

“Father, it is the same for the art world. It is evolving in this era; there are up-and-coming new artists to Vienna every other day. I don’t even understand the subject!”

“Lower your voice,” Instructed Herr Edelstein.

“And just because you do not understand art has never prevented you from excelling at it,” Amended Frau Edelstein, watching closely as the cogs spun in her son’s mind.

 

Finally, after their dinner plates had been cleared, Roderich folded his arms. “...How can you expect me to go from a low-level artist to someone of, say, Gustav Klimt’s standard at that Academy?”

“He works there, you know. He could teach you.” Noted his father.

“Hm. So what would make me any different from the hundreds of other applicants?” The brunette asked doubtfully. _I cannot believe I am even considering this._

“Oh, your way of painting will surely pay for your entry,” Answered his frail mother, enthusiastic at the prospect. “The Academy would _love_ your contribution.”

 Shaking his head, brow furrowed, the younger man gave up. After all, it wasn’t like his music career was going anywhere at the moment…

He stood, setting down his napkin and straightening his cravat. “Very well. I shall apply to the Vienna Academy of,” He faltered, “Fine Arts. Excuse me.” He left the room in a huff, preparing himself to begin sulking as soon as was possible.

.

.

.

 

 


	2. Chapter 1

**February 1908. Eisenstadt, Austria.**

“Roderich, they have accepted!” Roderich’s mother declared, brandishing the next letter addressed to her son within two months.

Her son arose from his chair, setting down his paperwork. “Excuse me?” The letter was waved again, closer to his proximity this time. “The Academy! They have agreed for you to join.”

The young aristocrat was surprised. He honestly had not expected to be accepted - really, he hadn’t even done any art courses before! He had no good grades to show for his work, no references, other than a few family members...So how come the Academy so readily took him in? “Are you sure, Mother?”

“Yes, yes! Here,” She replied enthusiastically as she handed him the letter.

He skimmed it thoughtfully.

...and **so, the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts shall gladly accept Herr Roderich Edelstein.**

**With kind regards,**

**Professor Francis Bonnefoy**

 

Beneath the printed name, was an artfully elegant signature. Certainly this professor was an artist.

“Bonnefoy,” Roderich tried the sound of it on his tongue. “Sounds French.”

Frau Edelstein tilted her head. “...Yes, I did wonder about that. He must also be an administrator for the Academy.” Her eyes bored into his. “You will go, won’t you?”

Another sigh. W _ell, considering Mother Music has given up on me, along with the whole damned Vienna city._ “...I...I suppose I could, try, Mother.”

.

.

.

**February 1908. Schillerplatz, Vienna, Austria.**

 

The carriage rattled to a stop along the road leading to the Vienna Academy, the horses bowing their perspiring heads as they stood restless in their harnesses.

“Now, it was very much a last-minute arrangement,” Commented Herr Edelstein as he fixed his son’s dark lilac eyes sincerely, “so do not expect treatment fit for a Royal.”

“At an art academy, I am not sure the word ‘Royal’ would be the first to spring to mind,” Roderich grumbled, “how do I not know they will not expect me to live in a store cupboard?”

Frau Edelstein frowned, fixing her skirts as they prepared to exit the finely-decorated carriage. “Enough of that sulking attitude, Roderich. You appeared so excited when first this was mentioned.”

 

With a sigh, the young Austrian aristocrat opened his side door and stepped out. _Did I? Then I must be a better actor than I imagined._

 

He stopped in front of the Academy to admire it’s Viennese beauty. It was a great ornament, carved with precision and finesse, six tall stone pillars holding up the entrance framework, upon each stood statues of angels or perhaps goddesses - Roderich did not particularly care which.

 He ventured into the grand hallway. The sight took his breath from him.

More stone pillars carved into ridges held up the ceiling - the ceiling which was so beautifully painted with figures of angels and cherubs, with every colour the mind could capture. All of this reflected in the deep amethyst orbs of his. Everything was polished to a gleam; not even footprints could be seen on the marble flooring.

_A grand Academy indeed._

 

The sound of echoing footsteps accompanied the form of perhaps the most elegant man Roderich had ever laid eyes on. His heeled dress shoes clicked as his long, slender legs moved under swaying hips; a long paint-splattered dandy-shirt with frilled sleeves and drawstrings covered his thin torso; slim shoulders were touched upon lightly by his long platinum blonde hair which framed his face, his light blue eyes glinting as he flashed the Austrian family a smile.

Glancing sideways, Roderich noted his father’s eyes narrowing and his mother drawing a quick breath.

  “ _Bonjour_ ,” Greeted the angelic man as he stopped  before the youngest man. Said young man noted he smelled of a fine fragrance. _Honeysuckle? No. Roses._  

“Ah, I apologise, I meant _guten Tag_.” Another smile.

“...Yes, it is nice to meet you. I assume you are of course Herr Bonnefoy?” Asked Roderich’s father with a look of bemusement on his wrinkled features. Naturally like the typical Austrian aristocrats he did not widely approve of foreigners working in his home country.

“ _Oui_ , I am he. I understand your son is to begin his course with us soon?” A nod from Herr Edelstein. Frau Edelstein finally gathered her thoughts enough to speak. “Y-yes. This is Roderich,” She gently took her son’s arm and gave an aged smile to the Frenchman, who happily returned it.

 Roderich felt his mother squeeze his bicep. _That must be the signal to contribute._

“Sir, I would like to thank you for allowing myself entry into this Academy, I look forward to working here.” _There_. Just like he had practised earlier that day with his mother. Of course, his mother was of a much more different character than the model before him now. Aforementioned model placed one hand on his hip, giving the younger a nod of approval. “Come. I will show you the Academy.”

“I’m afraid we cannot stay,” Spoke Roderich’s father, “but we fully intend to explore the hallways of this building at Herr Klimt’s _Kunstschau_. That is happening soon, is it not?”

Bonnefoy nodded, clapped his hands together briskly. “ _Alor_ , it was lovely to meet you. I hope to see you soon,” He winked at Roderich’s mother, to which she grew paler. “Y-yes, Herr Bonnefoy,” She muttered nervously, turning to her son, giving him a comforting smile. “We’ll see you soon, Roderich.”

Both adults left their only child with no more than a suitcase of his belongings and a sense of abandonment. He recalled this feeling from many previous experiences: his parents, while adoring of him, had always liked their space. Children who were fed and educated properly were considered ‘nurtured’ by his mother’s books, but….he’d always felt distant from them. Roderich respected and obeyed them, but he did not seem to have the kind of emotional attachment one would expect between parents and kin.

Together, Roderich and Bonnefoy ascended one of the grande staircases, footsteps echoing, emphasising the lack of dialogue and the excess amount of thoughts.

_It is unusually quiet for such a vast, widely-catering Academy_ , the younger man thought as he admired artworks upon the hallways. Suddenly, the Academy’s orchestra started to play a concerto from Mozart. “I was unaware there was an orchestra here,” Roderich commented.

Bonnefoy glanced at him, smiling. “ _Oui_ , they are an exceptional group of people. Your mother mentioned your love of music, am I to assume it is as strong as your passion for art?”

Roderich hesitated. _Stronger. By far_. “...Yes, yes from a young age I played many instruments, piano being the favoured.”

Nodding, the Frenchman gestured in the direction of the music. “I would of course allow you to play in our orchestra, however they have no places available. I apologise.”

“N-no, it is fine,” Replied the younger, waving it off. “But please, pray tell them that if they are in need of a pianist, I will of course offer to contribute.”

“I shall inform them of that.” As they continued, the music switched to a different piece, again by Mozart. Roderich found himself compelled to sway with the sounds of Requiem, the quiet opening to the striking vocals and rippling chords of the violin. Mozart’s mournful tune dedicated to the passing of his wife, Anna. The power and drama of the Masterpiece sent chills up Roderich’s spine.

 

Such was the effect of this music, it took him a few moments to notice Francis Bonnefoy had stopped walking.

 

The brunette turned to face him, the music now a distant whisper in the corridor in which they stood. Bonnefoy had stopped before plain double-doors. “These are the men’s dormitories,” He announced.

 Those pale blue eyes of his held a look of suspicion.

Roderich had always been taught it was rude to stare, much less with a judging eye. “What is it?” He asked, restraining from snapping at the older man.

 

“Master Edelstein, I am a professor of fine art here at this Academy, and to all art students I must ask this question to their faces,” Francis began, slowly making his way over to Roderich. He halted when their chests almost touched, so much so that the Austrian began to get even more uncomfortable. The Frenchman’s lips parted once more, “Do you really want to be here?”

 

Darkened lilac eyes narrowed. “I…Pardon?”

 

“To be here, now, is an honour. You have accepted that. I have been told you want, desperately, to take an artistic course. So why, then, do I see you tremble at the orchestra’s performances? Why do your fingers twitch so, as if aching for ebony and ivory keys?” Still Roderich couldn’t answer. _Oh no, if I do not assure him...he will throw me out, and my parents will be...devastated…_

“I do want to be here,” He blurted, somewhat clumsily. Francis smiled softly. “But it is not for the artwork, correct?”

Roderich flushed. “What- I - no, I….I do honestly like to draw -”

“‘Like’ is a weak word,” Interrupted Bonnefoy, “if you are to stay here, it is ‘love’ that you need. I can see you have love, are _in_ love, but it is with chords and concertos, not colours. Why did you come here?”

Feeling disheartened, Roderich tried to salvage any reasoning he had left. He sighed. “While it is true my heart beats faster for music than canvas, I believe it is possible to be in love with two subjects at once,” He continued, tone becoming more confident, “indeed my fingers were twitching but how do you know it was not for a paintbrush, or a graphite pencil? I am here to work, to learn, and appreciate the finer details of this city. I do very much want to be here, Herr Bonnefoy. Does that answer meet your expectations?” It was clear by the look on Francis’s face that Roderich had stunned him with certainty, after such a submissive first impression was given. Striding over and opening one of the doors, Bonnefoy gestured inside with a smirk. “I have heard better.”

The room Roderich was to stay in turned out more of an ‘office’: it contained only a small desk of drawers, a single bed, small shelf unit and a window with a rather unstimulating view of the street below. Seeing as this place had few residents able to afford a room inside the Academy he imagined the dorm would be rather quiet after classes had finished every day.

 

Bonnefoy had left with words of advice, for him to explore the Vienna city. _The buildings and scenery prove for excellent artistic stimulation_ , he had commented. _Classes do not begin until tomorrow so be sure not to get carried away chasing dames._

The cheek! Roderich had no time for such affairs - literally. After the long journey here, a quick briefing and registration along with unpacking, he was positively exhausted. The dormitory had a bathroom - communal with cubicles - but it was of poor condition. He decided not to bathe just yet.

   He also felt guilty that everything he’d said to Bonnefoy had been poppycock. Well, not all of it, but… He ached to walk over to that music room, push aside their current pianist and tickle the ivories with his own hands; he did not long to paint.

 

Glancing at his room with a thought of dismay, Roderich pulled on his fabric overjacket as he stepped out into the corridor, making a path for Vienna City.

.

.

.

“What do you mean, he is ill? When did he fall ill?” The sounds of Bonnefoy’s agitated voice rang throughout the hallway near the exit of the Academy. Curious, Roderich peered between the double doors into the room from which the sounds were coming from. In the room stood many easels, tables, stools and other such equipment. He could only assume this was an art classroom - in the centre there was a dais, a raised stage, assumedly for still-life drawings.

The Austrian blushed at the thought of drawing people, naked people, trying to replicate everything from their skin tone to the light effect.

Francis appeared troubled as he spoke with another man - _another professor, perhaps?_ Pondered Roderich as his ears picked up more conversation.

 

“I am sorry, Francis, but he has only just sent an informant to us. It is a serious infection, maybe influenza.”

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “Very well, it is too late to call in another still-life model. We shall have to make do with only two. It is a shame, really - his musculature is simply _divine_.” Again, the Austrian’s cheeks burned with those calibre of words.

“ _Sir_ ,” The other man gasped, “it is highly inappropriate for you to be using such….misleading….language when talking about a male.”

“We teach others how to draw naked humans, Herr Meier,” Replied the Frenchman, undeterred, “so why should we not openly praise our subjects?”                              Still Meier looked bewildered. “Bloody Frenchman, cannot tell chalk from cheese…” He  muttered distastefully as he sidled away.

_That was strange._ Purple eyes widened as his gaze returned to Francis. Francis, who was looking right at him. _Oh dear._

“It is rude to eavesdrop,” Scolded the professor as he moved to open one door, leaning against it.

“Y-yes, you’re - I did not mean to, sir, I only…” Roderich took a deep breath. “What do you mean, only two? Who is the ill person?”

“A very worthy painting model,” Answered Francis. “Alas, disease has taken him before you have had the chance to paint him. We are already lacking in participants for this area of art, and this is…” He trailed off. “Well. What were you wandering around for?”

Roderich licked his full lips. “I was on my way to explore Vienna, as per your advice. May I ask, why are there so few people interested in this kind of artwork?”

 

To this, the blonde-haired man paused in answering. “Most subjects are expected to be naked for their portraits,” He explained, “and seeing as this is Vienna, this is Austria, I have found the people here to be much more…. _unwilling_ than those of Paris, for example,” he finished with a wink.

“Do you mean to insinuate that just because Viennese people are less willing to strip for strangers, they are more arrogant?” Roderich’s tone was becoming heated. He had never been possessed with a fierce desire to defend his countrymen - hell, they could do that themselves - but he did not like the way this foreigner spoke of them. Like they were frigid, scared of reality.

Leaning down so that blue eyes bored into purple, the Frenchman gave the slightest of nods. “Be careful with your interpretations. But yes, I do believe that to look upon the naked beauty of a man -” He faltered, “or woman, with only embarrassment and disgust as these people do, is unwise. Beauty is fleeting, so why not worship it while it lasts?”

 

“My idea of beauty differs from yours, as does everyone else’s.”

 

“Students taking this art course would disagree. Remember, Master Edelstein, _you_ are also a student who will be starting this course tomorrow. You will be expected to complete one artwork a day. Focus on being open-minded, not some shallow being who can only see something pretty when it wears clothes.” With that, the older man moved past the tongue-tied Austrian, swiftly travelling to other parts of the building.

Expelling a huff of frustration, Roderich went out into the streets with one thought on his mind: _what a perverted Frenchman; I shall never see beauty in something so bare as skin._

.

.

.

 

 


	3. Chapter 2

 

The sun disappeared behind the clouds as Roderich spent his afternoon trailing around Vienna. Really, it was such a small city he wondered why so many had been attracted to it, but upon seeing the delicate structure of the buildings, the quiet people and the slow pace of life here, he understood what made it so appealing: this place was everyone’s escape from typical cities. It was an alternate universe, ignorant from the outside world.

The streets and roads were clean, horse-and-carriages were busy taking wealthy people to their destinations - those of less status would either walk or not bother to set foot in the snobbish setting that was 1908 Vienna City.  

 Roderich himself chose to walk. Well, actually he wanted to save as much money as possible, but he convinced himself that even if he’d had more money to spend he would have chosen to walk. It gave him more time to see the scenery.

_But we are not currently painting buildings, we are painting people_. When this thought dawned on him so did an idea: he needed to find a place where he could observe people. Here in the pathways of the city everyone was a blur; yet his eyes spied a nearby cafe. That was not particularly difficult: there were over 1000 such coffeehouses in Vienna alone.

This one, he noted as he strode closer, was labelled _Café Central_. It appeared to be the grandest little establishment around, all finely-cut wooden signs, soothing décor and peaceful paintings by local artists displayed on the walls lit by flickering oil lamps and overhead shaded bulbs. Under the bubbled, domed ceiling bordered by contemporary patterns Roderich walked, admiring the pillars and the warm colours inside. Calm classical music played.

 Seating himself in an empty booth, Roderich sighed, breathing in the thick scent of coffee and various colognes as he picked up the menu, perusing their dishes and drinks.

  

He stood up to go and order, but a figure blurred into him, knocking him off balance.

 “Oh - jeez! I am so sorry,” Came an apologetic voice as Roderich fell back onto his seat heavily, blinking in confusion. The man above him crouched down, picked something up from the floor. Roderich could see a head of pure white hair, layered.

“I - um, it’s alright…” Mumbled the Austrian as he straightened his cravat and collar.

Without meeting his eyes, the clumsy stranger moved to walk away, when Roderich caught a glimpse of something familiar in the man’s pale hand.

“Hey!” The Austrian stood, scowling, “That is my wallet!” With a chuckle the man sprung away, darting around tables and out of the Café doors, Roderich doing his best to catch up with him - however, his years spent at the piano meant he barely had time for activities such as _running_ , and he was on the street only feet away from the thief, forced into an unsightly _sprint_ and he did not want to know how ridiculous he looked now, chasing after a raggedly-dressed athlete when he himself wore his fine upper-class attire -

Roderich’s foot caught in a crack on the pavement, his ankle bending at an uncomfortable angle and sending him propelling forwards, arms outstretched, hands touching the back of the thief, pushing him -

\- into the way of an oncoming carriage, the horses rearing and whinnying with fright as the figure dropped, rolled, came to a stop on the other side of the cobbled road.

“ _You bloody fools!_ ”

The cry from the chauffeur burned Roderich’s ears as he lay stomach-down on the pavement, both his ankle and his pride being damaged. Everyone around him had stopped, staring. Ladies clung to their husbands’ arms in shock; said husbands were looking at the young Austrian with bemusement and disgust.

 After the chauffeur had calmed the horses, he cursed Roderich once more before setting about his journey again. The Austrian heard a groan, not far from where he lay. _The thief._

Sitting up, Roderich tried to stand, but collapsed to his knees when his left ankle gave. Through his glasses - _how_ had they managed to survive? - Roderich met the eyes of a few onlookers. Most then went about their business, ignoring him as if he were dirt beneath their shoes.

_What...horrid people. No one has even offered to help me!_ With a grunt he managed to stay on his feet, hopping angrily over to the body of the thief laying on the concrete. A dark, frayed shawl covered his back and his white hair was now dirtied by the street dust.

 

Roderich crouched down next to him, plucking the wallet from between the man’s fingers.

“Wretched thief,” He spat, brushing back his fringe as he placed his wallet in his pocket; as he straightened a hand shot out, grabbed his injured ankle.

“Ngh,” Roderich grunted in pain, glaring down at the defiling hand.

The man had lifted his upper body, head kept low. “You….God...damn rich people,” He growled. The Austrian’s attention was taken by his accent, and the way his German was spoken…. _yes, this is a German. Berliner, by the sounds of it._

 

 “You have come a long way from your usual hunting ground,” Commented the Austrian blandly, “did the police come too close to catching you in Berlin?”

The grip on his ankle tightened, as the man used it as a base while he moved onto his knees, head still kept down. “Be quiet, you don’t know anything. You were raised on a silver platter, _I_ gotta take more risks to get my riches.”

 

“...It is rude not to look people in the eye when addressing them.” Now the thief was standing, somewhat shakily, his hands on his knees. Roderich suspected one of the horses had kicked him in their panic.

“I have a good reason for not meeting anyone’s eyes, and it ain’t because I’m a thief.”

Suddenly, Roderich grabbed the man’s chin in his hand, turned it up towards his own. Violet eyes widened as they met... _crimson_.

“Back off!” The man shook free of the grip, trying to redeem his full height yet doubling over again, clutching his stomach with a groan.

 

Roderich froze. “You….you are - I mean, your eyes, they are red…”

 Sensing the game was up, the pale man raised his head, those silvery-grey locks falling over his deep red eyes. “I know what colour my eyes are, you swine.” He tried to hobble away but the Austrian blocked him. _What am I doing? I do not want to be involved with this scoundrel._ “Why do you look so different?”

“Because I’m a fucking _fairy_ ,” Hissed the man, turning another direction to leave. Roderich stepped in again. _I should let him go, he clearly has wounds that need tending to..._ But an idea struck, something consisting of his and Francis’s earlier conversation.

  _We shall have to make do with only two._

_How interesting would it be_ , He thought, _if we were to paint him? He has such contrasting colours, white and red…_

 

“Jeez, man,” Wheezed the thief, now becoming more patient as the oblivious citizens of Vienna passed by, “I am sorry I took your wallet, but...I can’t stay here.”

 

Roderich straightened his back, glancing down at his hunched form. “Then...come with me.”

The man hesitated. “What?”

“You heard. There is….I have a proposition for you.” That got the man’s full attention; their eyes locked again, one set unsure and the other confused.

The man sniffled. “Go on.”

Roderich licked his lips. “There may be an opportunity for you to have somewhere to stay. In an Academy. You would have shelter and would not need to -”

“Spit it out, Priss.”

“What did you call me?”

“Priss.”

Roderich bristled. _Perhaps I should just leave him after all_. “Well, if you are not interested…”

“No, wait,” Blurted the man, “just….just what would I have to _do_ , in order to stay at this Academy?”

_Here it goes_. “...You would be a still-life model, for art students to paint.” Apart from the sounds of the people around them, neither man spoke for a moment. The man’s brow furrowed. “They _ask_  people to do that? I thought they were just nudists.”

That earned a slight upturn of the mouth from Roderich. “That is my proposition, though I myself cannot confirm you will be allowed it. Do you accept?”

He watched, silent, as the man chewed it over, rearranging his clothing and wiping off some of the gravel from his body. Finally, with one risen eyebrow, he answered, “Sure, why not.”

.

.

.

“Master Edelstein,” Francis Bonnefoy sighed as he took in the Austrian’s dishevelled appearance, “when I said chasing dames I did not mean _literally_ chasing them-” his eyes glanced over the hunched, cloaked figure beside him. “Who is this?”

“He is…” Roderich began, abashedly realising he had not thought of a valid explanation as to who this man was. He did not even think to ask his _name_! “This is…”  
“Gilbert Beilschmidt,” The man stated, holding out a hand for Francis to shake. However, with a suspicious glance at the filthy palm, said Frenchman refused. “Right. It is, uh, nice to meet you Herr Beilschmidt. Master Edelstein you still haven’t answered my question exactly.”

Roderich gulped. “Well, you see, I...A thief tried to steal my wallet in a cafe, and…” Out of the corner of his eye the Austrian could see Gilbert tense, “...Herr Beilschmidt got it back for me. I saw his, well, his appearance and I thought he could be another life-model, for the art classes.”

 Steadily the Frenchman’s brow sunk with each passing word he spoke, arms folded tightly against his chest. “His appearance?”

 

In explanation, Gilbert raised his head and pulled down the hood of his cloak; Francis’s jaw dropped in a rather comical fashion when he saw the man’s snow white locks and ruby red eyes.

 “I see,” Francis whispered softly. “You have albinism.”

At that, Gilbert bristled. _He must not like the term_ , concluded Roderich as the German spoke, “...Yes, I do. So I’ve been told you pencil-pushers might want to paint me.”

The older blonde tilted his head. “We - we may have a position for you. I shall have to check with other members of this establishment.” Taking Roderich’s shoulder and moving themselves aside, the Frenchman hissed, “This is very sudden. However, I agree with your point. Take him to the dormitories and pick him out one while I settle arrangements.” With that, he breezed out of the extravagant hallway.

 

Gilbert turned to Roderich, a sly smile on his face. “Didn’t know you were prone to defending criminals.”

“Oh please,” The other retorted hotly, “if I had announced that you were a thief you would be thrown out sooner than the blink of an eye. Now, follow me.” Begrudgingly, the albino did, taking in the surroundings as they made their way to the males’ dormitories.

Opening the door to an unoccupied room, the Austrian relayed information he himself had been given earlier. “No smoking, there are restrictions on alcoholic beverages, you must ask if you need any essentials and seeing as you cannot pay rent here, I should imagine the Academy will also employ you as an errand boy.”

“Boy?” Repeated Gilbert as he sank down onto the plain mattress. “I am twenty-four years old. I’d have to be at least an errand _man_. Tell me, why must you insist I be an art subject?” The smirk appeared again. “Is it because you want to humiliate me?” Gilbert stood, limped over to the younger man, leaned in. “Or is it because you want to see me naked?”

Cheeks turning red, Roderich shoved him aside weakly, “Do not ask such crass questions, Herr Beilschmidt. If you find this taste of upper-class life too boring for you nobody will complain if you leave.”

“Nah, why would I leave now I have shelter and a bed? Maybe even a job,” He chuckled, “perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing, you catchin’ me in the act. I should get caught more often by you snobs.”

 

“Sn-? We are _not_ snobs, we are noblemen,” Defended Roderich, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his straight nose.

“Same thing,” Spat Gilbert, eyes now aflame with frustration.

Before any more unwanted comments would be exchanged, the younger decided to make his leave of the room and head to his own: he needed time to calm down.

.

.

.

Roderich was awoken abruptly by the sound of floorboards creaking in the hallway outside his room.

Cursing himself for being such a light sleeper, he rested his head once more on the pillows, trying to slip away into sleep again.

_Creak. Creak. Cre-ak. Thud. Thud._

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” The sleepy Austrian mumbled as he reached for the box of matches on the table, lit a nearby oil lamp and put on his glasses.

 

He stepped up to his door, nightgown flowing to his ankles. He was sure nightgowns weren’t meant to be this long , but he was not the tallest of men.

_Creak_. Roderich yanked the door open. “Who is there?” He hissed.

“Fuck!” Cussed Gilbert Beilschmidt, throwing himself against the opposite wall in shock, arms over his face.

 

“B-Beilschmidt? What on _Earth_ are you doing?” Roderich all but snapped, brow furrowing. Lowering his arms, Gilbert smiled. “Got hungry. Thought I’d go on a food hunt.”

“You - you could not wait until morning? Or at least be a little quieter?” Admittedly this would have been only for his benefit, considering Roderich was clueless as to whether there were other people on this floor, in these dorms.

 Gilbert shrugged nonchalantly. “Not my fault if you can’t sleep through a few footsteps.”

 

“A few -? I thought the building might collapse under your heavy footfalls!” At that, Gilbert approached him, his limp still obvious. Roderich noted he was still wearing the same clothes from earlier - thought he had removed the black, tattered cloak. Now Gilbert, smelling very strongly of body odour, was centimetres from him.

 “No need to be melodramatic, Priss.”

“Do not call me that. Be on your way, if you are after food.” Speaking of food, Roderich was reminded of his lack in such a nutrient. His stomach awoke with a growl, causing him to blush and Gilbert to smirk once more. “Hungry, Specs?”

Roderich frowned. “My name is not ‘Specs’.”

“Oh yeah,” Gilbert agreed. “It’s Richard, in’t it?”

“No -”

“Can I call you ‘Dick’ for short, Specs?” With that Roderich made to shut the door as the German chuckled, but said German jammed his foot in the doorway. “Wait, wait - I’m sorry. I was joking, Edelstein.”

Roderich gave him a skeptical look. “Yes, I was aware. I am too tired for this, so -”

“But you’re already awake,” Persisted the older man. “Why not come find food with me?”

“Because it is night time and I do not know my way around just yet.”

 

“Fine, I’ll just try to figure out where the canteen is myself,” Gilbert moved away, turning to the corridor, “hope I don’t wake you again by falling down the stairs or something - I mean, I do not even have a light…”

Glancing at the oil lamp, the Austrian sighed. “...Very well. But know this,” he stepped out of his room, shutting the door silently, “if we are caught, I will not hesitate to put all blame on you.”

.

.

.

This really was a bloody big building.

 

Eventually upon reaching the lower floors of the Academy, Roderich opened another door, on the brink of praying they would have found the canteen.

 Because Gilbert Beilschmidt would not be quiet.

“....that painting is interesting, isn’t it? I like the brushwork of that one.” The German pointed to a piece on the wall to their left.

“I did not know you were so keen on artwork, Herr Beilschmidt.”

“I - hang on, I can’t see it now, you - stop moving the lamp!”

“How can I not move the lamp, when we are moving around?” The Austrian mumbled tiredly.

 

This had been a really bad idea, in a bloody big building.

 

Gilbert caught up with him, one eyebrow cocked as he peered into the room Roderich had chosen.

“Nothing in here but a few stands, chairs, and some kind of piano.”

Instantly, the brunette entered the large hall. He could not see much in the gloom, but by the light of a few uncurtained windows he spotted the glimmering outline of a grand piano, just as Gilbert had claimed.

_So that was the centre of the concerto I heard earlier…_

 

“We should get moving, now we know there is no food here.” Gilbert’s voice seemed distant. Gosh, Roderich missed his piano.

How long had it been since his fingers had touched such keys? 48 hours? Longer? It felt as if he had not played in weeks. He missed it.

 

The soothing sounds he created while seated upon that stool made him feel sleepy again, it always did help him to relax, to sort problems out, to focus…

 

Suddenly a pale hand waved in front of his vision, bringing him back to reality. With this, came the sight of a pair of glinting ruby eyes surrounded by alabaster hair and the sound of a whispered urgency. “Specs, snap out of it, it is just a piano.”  
Blink, blink. Roderich adjusted his glasses for something to do as his cheeks flushed. “My apologies, I...do not know what came over me.” After seeing the albino’s confused expression he felt elaboration would be helpful, “I am a pianist, you see.”

Immediately, Gilbert began to chuckle. “A penis?”

Purple eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. How could this man speak so, so _rudely_? “N-no! Not a p - do not be silly. I said a _pianist_ , you fool.”

With a hand clamped over his smirking mouth, the taller man swallowed his laughter, turning to leave the room. “Sure. Let’s go before your _pianist_ thoughts take you again.”

 

Roderich briefly wondered whether he should clout the man about the head with the oil lamp, but rejected the idea on the grounds that without said oil lamp, he was blind in the darkness.

.

.

.

A light switch.

 

_How_ had they not first decided to find a light switch? This thought came to Roderich as he felt around a wall for one - _click_ \- the hallway they were standing in was filled with dim light from overhead bulbs, casting colour into the previously grey paintings surrounding them.

Gilbert, he noticed, shielded his eyes from the light with a forearm, squinting. “Good idea, but now my eyes are burning.” Roderich gave him a withering look. “Now you do not need me to stay with you. Good night, Herr Beilschmidt.”

“Wait -”

Before Gilbert could finish his sentence, Roderich tripped on the hem of his gown; the carpeted floor rushed up to meet him and he gave a yelp of pain when his jaw hit -

\- the oil lamp went flying, smashing onto the ground, flame catching on fabric and canvas alike, burning -

“Edelstein!” Gilbert dove towards him, grabbing his shoulders and hauling him to his feet, “Are you alright?”

“I am -” The dancing yellow tendrils caught their eyes, as the fire climber up the wall and began to eat the nearest painting, a beautiful oil-picture of a lake. “Oh no.”

“Shit!” Gilbert tore off his shirt, batting at the fire with it as Roderich heard running footsteps in the distance.

 

“Out of the way,” Came a commanding voice as both men looked down the hallway where a figure was striding up to them, bucket in hand. Roderich and Gilbert complied as the bucket was upturned and the water silenced the fire before it could catch onto the next painting.

The remains of the art piece hissed, the burned edges curling inwards like serpents.

 

His back pressed against a section of wall, Roderich lifted his head, pushing up his glasses to define the person in front of him.

 

Cloth trousers covered slender legs; a loose nightshirt draped over a - pair of breasts? Bringing his eyes further up, Roderich gaped as he noticed long mousy brown hair cascading over thin shoulders. That wavy head of hair bore an incredibly annoyed expression creasing pretty features.

“Who are you?” She asked in that same dominant tone. Roderich was too stunned to speak. _Trousers_ , on a _woman_? The audacity!

 

“I am awesome, that’s who I am,” Interrupted Gilbert, drawing her green-eyed glare, “who are you, Miss?” She scoffed. “ _Miss_? Do not patronise me, if it weren’t for me this building would already be in ashes by now. My name is Erzsébet Héderváry.”

Roderich’s brow furrowed, noticing the now-empty bucket in her hands. “Where did you get the water from?”

Erzsébet cocked an eyebrow. “The canteen kitchen, of course. It is only a few doors down from here. Now tell me, why are you two trying to burn down this building?”

“We’re not-”

“That is incorrect,” Began the Austrian, dusting himself off and striding over to the woman. She was an inch or so taller than him, but that did not serve as a deterrent. “I tripped and fell, so my oil lamp broke on impact.”

Again, that condescending tone and look. “What made you think that carrying an oil lamp around in the dark, in a _highly flammable_ area, was a good idea? You’re lucky the paint fumes did not encourage the flames.”

Before Roderich could think of a defence, Gilbert chimed in, a smirk on his lips. “Actually, the funny thing is, he tripped _after_ the lights came on. Nightgowns are a pain, aren’t they, Specs?”

 The brunette’s face became hotter by the second as he shot a warning glance to the white-haired German.

Erzsébet seemed surprised by this revelation, and was that a tinge of pink upon her cheeks when she noticed Roderich’s attire? Surely there was nothing wrong with a nightgown.

Roderich cleared his throat, desperate to return to his room. “Yes, well. This mess shall no doubt be sorted in the morning. For now, Beilschmidt, Erz - Erse -”

“Just call me Elizaveta, it is easier to pronounce,” She advised.

“Goodnight.” As he turned to finally leave this catastrophe, he heard Gilbert ask Elizaveta to show him to the canteen, and fought down the growl in his stomach.

.

.

.

When he awoke early that morning, and unlocked his door, Roderich found a small sandwich wrapped in clingfilm by his door. A note was attached to it:

**Here you go, Specs. Don’t want you to starve. -G**

Then Roderich heard the commotion coming from a floor or so down, and remembered how he had accidentally destroyed a precious art piece on one of those walls….

_I am in a lot of trouble._

.

.

.

 

 


	4. Chapter 3

There was a small crowd of other art students gathered around in the hallway. They must live in Vienna, or near enough, to travel here daily, concluded Roderich as he approached them cautiously.

 

If he could wear a mask right now, he would.

 

The primary art professor, Bonnefoy, was standing in front of the dead remains of the burned painting, fists clenched and his appearance considerably more dishevelled than it was upon their first meeting.  
 Gilbert was there also; purple eyes picked him out, standing on Bonnefoy’s right. He wore what most of the artists here did, the same attire Roderich also donned: fabric tunic with trousers to match and simple leather shoes. The Austrian felt plain wearing them, yet he decided there was a more pressing matter to focus on as he continued forward.

“...this…. _you_ did this? What kind of fool are you?” Francis’s heated voice reached his ears. Roderich took his place among the small crowd all gawping and whispering about Gilbert and the ruined artwork.

“Yes. It was an accident, you understand,” Gilbert defended, visibly uncomfortable with so many pairs of eyes on him, “and this girl put the flames out, so-”

“‘This girl’?” The same woman from the previous night shouldered her way into the space of Gilbert and Francis, hands on her hips.

Elizaveta Héderváry today wore what all other female art students did: a long pleated skirt, flat shoes, and unpatterned blouse, all of which made Roderich more comfortable with her. _Honestly, she was wearing_ trousers _, how strange._

“My name is Elizaveta, Beilschmidt,” She snapped, green eyes glaring as Francis tilted his head in interest, “and I saved you both from burning the entire place down.”

“Both?” Repeated Francis, turning to face the white-haired German. “You were not solely to blame?”

Gilbert hesitated. With his back to the majority of people there, he did not see Roderich’s concerned expression. “Uh, yes, I…”

_Damn_ , thought the brunette as his internal battle subsided. _I cannot allow him to be accused. It would be unfair, no matter how annoying he is._ “Professor Bonnefoy.” His voice came out weaker than planned, probably from hours of disuse, so he said it once more, louder.

The blonde-haired Frenchman spun, locks falling from his typical ponytail. His oceanic eyes and risen brow automatically gave him permission to speak.  
“It...last night, I - it was me.” The crowd parted so that he may move closer to Bonnefoy, all expressions quizzical save for Elizaveta, who appeared calm, and Gilbert, whose grimace relaxed as their eyes briefly met. 

“You mean to confess that you burned the painting,” Stated Francis, now but a foot away from him as Roderich nodded, “I tripped and fell….my oil lamp broke and set fire to the artwork.”

Francis, instead of patronising him as he had Gilbert, simply narrowed his eyes and folded his arms, thin hips jutted in a _you had better not be lying for his sake_ kind of way. “Right,” He concluded, “this scene is over, people. The painting will be removed -” He leaned down to Roderich’s level and whispered, “- lucky for you the creator of this piece is no longer here,” before once again addressing the students, “everyone, get to your classrooms. Classes will run as normal.”

Everyone dispersed, excepting Gilbert, Roderich and Francis. 

“Am I not in trouble for doing such a terrible thing? Even if it was without intention,” Queried the shorter brunette.

Bonnefoy licked his lips quickly. “No, you are not. That was...an old painting, anyway. It is about time we change some of the pieces displayed here.” _He is making it sound like this was a good thing, that I have done him a favour. However…_

Glancing at Gilbert, Roderich continued determinedly. “Yet when Gilbert took responsibility you were quite eager to belittle him, from what I was able to hear. Perhaps, Sir, you would elaborate?”

In his peripheral vision, he saw the same white-haired figure roll his ruby eyes. 

Francis straightened. “Don’t be ridiculous, I was merely certifying his claim,” a look towards the unusually silent German, “which turned out to be a lie.”

“A defence.”

“Trying to deflect from the real perpetrator, regardless of whether the act was planned or not, is still a form of lying in my book.” 

Roderich’s lips formed a straight line. “Maybe the guidelines of your book should be reviewed, _Professor_.”

Gritting his perfect teeth, the blonde man moved past him with quick orders to both subjects, “Make sure you are at class by ten, Edelstein. Beilschmidt, go to the lobby and collect the new art supplies there. Take them to art room one.” His tall figure disappeared round the corner of the hallway, and Gilbert burst out laughing. 

The sound startled Roderich, but after seeing the stupid grin on the albino’s face, his pale hair tousled over his creased eyes, found himself chuckling softly. The Austrian moved over to walk beside the German as they made their way to the lobby of the Academy.

“I did not know you were prone to defending aristocrats,” Roderich deadpanned, a smug smile upon his features.

Sensing the reprisal, Gilbert replied accordingly, attempting to mimic the Austrian dialect comically, “Oh please, if I had announced that you were an arsonist you would be thrown out faster than the blink of an eye.”

“That was a terrible accent.”

“Yeah, us Germans think so.” At this, Roderich scowled at him. Gilbert smirked back at him as they parted ways for their separate destinations.  
.

.

.  
Twenty easels were set up in a semicircle around the art room; it was the first one on the left side that Roderich stood before. The easels curled around a central table, upon which sat a bowl of fruit and a transparent ornate vase. 

Of those twenty easels, only fifteen were currently occupied, as some students had not arrived yet.  
Actually, even the teacher hadn’t arrived yet.

It was assumed that Professor Bonnefoy would be taking the introductory lesson, yet no one was expecting the earlier charade to have interfered with his schedule.  
Nobody excepting Roderich. He was perhaps the least surprised to see an unknown male shuffle reluctantly into the room and stand in front of the table. The newcomer tucked his hands behind his back, straightening himself. 

He appeared younger than Bonnefoy, yet almost identical: wavy golden hair, no longer than from the crown of his head to the base of his neck; loose-fitting and paint-splattered attire; a timid smile, and kind lilac eyes behind silver frame glasses. 

“Good morning, class,” He spoke with almost the same French lilt to his voice, making it no easy task to understand his German. Roderich frowned as he continued.“Today you will be starting one of the most important art courses needed if you are to be successful in your work,” he seemed to grow more bold when he realised the students were more focused on his words than himself. “I am Mr Williams and I am covering for Professor Bonnefoy who...ah...had - had to sort out a mishap this morning.”

So young, opined the Austrian silently as he listened carefully. _He cannot be older than seventeen, surely. Is it possible we are to be led by an inexperienced employee of the Academy?_  
“....only your best efforts will help you to thrive here….”  
_Bonnefoy is near intolerable, but at least he knows in detail about art._ Now Mr Williams was writing something on the blackboard set on the wall behind him, the white chalk scraping marks onto the surface. Williams spoke aloud as he wrote.

“This course has five main projects. The first two should be finished by the end of February. Each project should take each of you no longer than two weeks to complete, that is two weeks per project. Now this year is slightly different because as I am sure you know, it is the Diamond Jubilee of our King, therefore you all shall also have an opportunity to create an artwork worthy of him. Gustav Klimt himself will choose a winner, and that winner shall present the _Meisterwerk_ to His Majesty.” Excited mutters and gasps arose from the other students. Roderich fought the urge to roll his eyes; of _course_ these budding artists would want their work recognised by royalty - how could they not? It was a certifiable career if such a thing happened. 

Certifiable career….something steady to keep him afloat until his parents’ money came into his hands….yes, perhaps he ought to keep that contest in mind.

Now facing the students once more, Williams gestured to his bullet points and again spoke in his soft tone to clarify what each one included.

**February: Interpretation Project Piece - Interpret an inanimate object for meaning.**

**February: Identity Project Piece - Paint who you are, or the most important thing to you, using aspects of daily life.**

**March: Emperor’s Project Piece - Paint an image showing the emperor of Austria-Hungary Habsburg empire in glory**

**March: Observation Project Piece - Observe buildings of Vienna and capture them exactly.**

**May: Still Life Project Piece - paint a human subject, a nude model.**

**June: All pieces completed. Start of the Kunstschau.**

Roderich swallowed hard when his eyes landed on the last project, his mind conjuring the words of Gilbert Beilschmidt, reminding him of how rude the man was.  
If he, as a wealthy heir to his father’s name and fortune, was going to paint a human subject, that subject would be fully clothed in fine fabric and dark-haired. The complete opposite to that damned annoying German.

“Alright,” Williams clapped his hands, hands covered in unscrubbed paint and powders, “let us begin. Today you are expected to paint this selection on the table, so that the art professors here may judge your abilities, your strengths, favourite materials and so on. Use whatever sources are available to you - t-there will be staff around to ask should you need to find certain supplies. T-thank you for your attention.” With that, he breezed out of the room, seemingly glad to be gone.

“Wait - we do not have a teacher?” One of the other students, a young auburn-haired woman with a distinctive curl on the left side of her hair, called after the young assistant. 

“It appears not,” Roderich replied, calling many pairs of eyes to him. “Now then, if we are expected to work, might someone show me where the oil pastels are?”

_They have been here days longer than I have; I may as well take advantage of that._  
.

.

.  
His first artwork had been judged by Bonnefoy, to be concluded as ‘flat’ and ‘thin’ with a ‘muted’ spectrum of colours. There must have been other criticisms, but luckily Roderich’s ears had muted the Frenchman’s voice before they could be registered. 

On that same afternoon Gilbert had snickered at the belittling of Roderich’s painting as he walzed by, carrying a heavy box of water jars.

Having thrown his now-paint-splattered apron into the wash basket, the brunette decided he’d had quite enough of artwork for one day. Thanks to a quick tour of the building by another professor during the day, he now knew exactly where the canteen was. It was, as all else set here, a rather eccentrically-decorated room, with long tables and fancy cutlery. The food matched these standards, and Roderich had to wonder where Gilbert had found those terribly-made sandwiches. God forbid he’d created them himself. 

The evening drew near; looking through one of the Academy’s many windows, Roderich noted the deep chartreuse seep into a previously navy sky as he made his way up to the men’s dorms. 

A pale hand patted him on the back; the Austrian let out a yelp of surprise.

“Cool it, Specs!” Gilbert chuckled, holding both hands up in mock surrender as he fell into step, both now ascending a gold-plated staircase. Roderich’s expression morphed into one of annoyance. “Good evening, Beilschmidt.”

A nod in return. “So I saw you getting verbally beaten up by Frenchy.”

Roderich chose to remain silent, instead admiring the collage of artworks plastered along the hallways. Gilbert, it seemed, did not know a hint when one was presented to him. “I looked over your work by myself, and...I know it’s your first piece, but you mixed the paint wrong.” Reaching his moribund of patience, the Austrian halted and glanced sideways at the taller man. “I beg your pardon.”

  
“That’s not necessary; I’ll explain it myself,” Gilbert’s eyebrow raised in confusion as he continued to walk ahead.

“What could you possibly know about art, you thief.”

“Well exactly,” A pair of clothed arms folded over a thin chest, “I am only an illiterate lowlife. To you. But now that I am a...volunteer….here, I have been instructed to move art supplies and boxes all day, and I could not help but read the instructions on each load. Those paints you used were not water-based; you mixed them with too much liquid and thus prevented the piece from having a 3D effect.” Roderich gawped at him.

“You can paint shadows for depth, but when the subject is as 2D as its shading you cannot reach a high level of artistry.” With that, the white-haired German turned his head to look down on Roderich from the top step. “Gonna stand there catching flies, or are you aiming to get to your room telepathically?”

With a snap of his jaw, Roderich’s brow furrowed as he strode frustratedly past the man currently responsible for his foul mood. I should never have brought him here. “I feel it obligatory to return some advice, Beilschmidt.”

“Oh?” Gilbert’s voice encouraged from behind him.

“Yes: keeping your mouth shut when among those of a higher intellectual and social status will ensure not only my constant good mood, but also, I would predict, your safety.” Violet eyes captured the priceless face of an insulted worker, before said worker smirked playfully. “I’m flattered you are concerned for my wellbeing, Princess.”

“Think nothing of it. I only believe that should you try to tell Professor Bonnefoy how to paint correctly your blood will serve as the new watercolour canvas paints we use.” He was only able to take one further step from him before a quieter reply was mumbled, “I was offering only a bit of help.”

Sighing in exasperation, Roderich decided to cut their conversation off at that point. Gilbert parted from his side, announcing his intention to go take a shower, and Roderich carried on until suspiciously whispered sounds caught his ear. 

“... _Not right now, we_ …”

“ _It will be fine, cher_.” The two spoke in English; the brunette shuffled closer to the door behind which the sounds emitted. Through a crack between the door and its frame, he placed his view. It captured two figures embracing in the shadows of a darkened, empty classroom. Only one set of blinds were not fully closed, allowing Roderich to recognise…

“Francis, I have to prepare materials for tomorrow’s class,” Matthew Williams spoke softly against the neck of the art professor. 

Francis’s long blonde locks spilled over both of their shoulders as he held the smaller, younger male close. He gingerly planted a kiss on Matthew’s lips. “I understand. But just five more minutes…” He kissed him again, and again, the younger’s arms wrapping around his neck as he released a subtle moan. 

Roderich, being the chaste man he was, blushed like a virgin. Which was also exactly the perfect description of him. He had never witnessed a man kissing a _woman_ let alone ever encounter a homosexual exchange of affection. Backing away from the door, he made a fast retreat to the security status quo of his room. _It is my first day here, and already there is a secret to be kept_ , his panicked mind thought as he tried to blur the images from his mind.  


.

.

.


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: My apologies for the unforgivably late update, I hope you all enjoy chapter 4!

* * *

All was well when Roderich Edelstein awoke early the next day. So early, in fact, that only the slightest hint of sunrise had crept into the night sky. Yawning and stretching, he made his way out of his room and towards the bathrooms, necessary clothes, towel and soap in hand.

 

There were several other dorm rooms located next to the bathroom door. Turning on the lights inside the tiled room, he decided that the risk of waking others up was less dire than not being able to see what he was doing.

Roderich usually considered himself a product of some of the most intelligent Austrian blood - that is, until he was confronted, half-naked, with the controls of one of the showers. The room itself was split into two sections: the left, which contained several urinals and toilets, and the right, which of course had the showers, communal and private. Roderich had only ever taken baths.

These controls seemed quite unnerving. A handle and a couple of switches. Roderich yanked the handle; ice-cold water sprayed from the shower head and the Austrian made a noise which could only be described as effeminate as he jumped back from the offending liquid.

 

Someone flung open the door and rushed in. "What's going on?" A sleep-affected male voice questioned, "I heard a woman panicking in here!" The sight the newcomer was confronted with was apparently so hilarious that the boy could not stifle his laughter. "Oh. Sorry," He wheezed, as Roderich glowered at him from the frame of the open cubicle. He was glad that he had not yet removed his towel.

"Hey, turn that off, you're wasting water," The boy was about his age, tall, with a dark mop of hair; he shuffled past Roderich to turn back the handle. "There."

"T-thank you," Mumbled the brunette, hugging himself against the cold air. Seeing as the taller was clad only in loose drawstring shorts, it was a wonder he could even be comfortable strolling around like that.  _Not even goosebumps_ , Roderich noted as he was faced by the other.

"You're the transfer art student, yes? I'm Diedrich." The Austrian quickly shook the proffered hand, "Ah...Roderich Edelstein," He nodded towards the shower, "please do not consider this presumptuous of me, but seeing as you know how to work these controls, could you show me?"

Diedrich grinned. "Easy. You did not turn on the hot water switch." Roderich blinked. Indeed there were indications of what the switches signified."Oh. Perhaps I was too tired to properly read the labels."

Diedrich chuckled once more, folding his arms. "I don't think that is -"

"Nevertheless that will be the excuse I give for disturbing your sleep," Roderich looked up at him, "are you a first year student, as well?" He was not overly keen on making conversation whilst clothed, let alone when practically nude, however he felt it an obligation after this person had saved him from likely contracting pneumonia.

"No, actually, I am a second year music student. Violin. And considering that my room is right next to the showers, you would not believe how many identical incidents I have encountered in my time here," Diedrich answered, his hazel eyes crinkled by a smile.

Roderich did not understand how someone could be so happy at such an hour. "I see."

 

"Well, I'll let you take your shower now," The older Austrian made to leave. "But know this: as soon as you drop that towel, you are on your own." 

Forcing a thankful, if slightly embarrassed, smile in return, Roderich simply nodded as he left. Now stood under the warm water flow, Roderich let his concerns follow the water down the drain, if only for a little while.

.

.

.

Making his way to his assigned art classroom, Roderich sighed in content. His hunger sated and his body clean, he always enjoyed this feeling of cleanliness and nutrition, as did other people apparently, his mother once commented, because it meant that he was less likely to snap at people.

"Specs! Morning!"

The too-loud and all-too-familiar voice reached his ears, causing the Austrian to wince.  _What a way to ruin the morning peace_.

"Yes, hello, Beilschmidt," Grumbled the younger man. As he descended some stairs, Roderich felt an arm drape heavily across his shoulder, and promptly pushed it off.

He could hear the pout as the German continued to speak. "Did you not sleep well? You still seem cranky."

_Yes_ , Roderich thought,  _Mother was right. Less likely to snap, but not completely impossible._  "Have you considered the idea that my decline in mood is associated with your presence this morning?"

Now shoulder-to-shoulder as they walked, Gilbert feigned deep thought, placing a hand to his chin. "Hmmm…No, I'm a delight."

_You are definitely something._  "So, what compels you to accompany me?"

"I have my first class as a life-model."

Roderich frowned, catching Gilbert's ruby eyes. "They have already accepted you? I-in this class?" He gestured to the doors through which his class was stationed. Gilbert shook his head. "Not this class yet. I don't think your course is doing that type of observation yet, anyway," He winked, his pale hair falling haphazardly. "Patience is a virtue, little Edelstein."

"Be quiet." Scoffing at the older man's distaste, Roderich proceeded to enter the art room, Gilbert's chuckle following at his back.

.

.

.

The very sight of his art professor brought back forcefully-buried memories of the previous evening, ones which the young Austrian was not hoping to remember.

" _Just five more minutes…"_  He could not expel the images of two men embracing from his head, could not forget the sultry sound of Bonnefoy's voice as he spoke to Mr Williams.

With a sense of regret, Roderich decided that he should have taken the Frenchman's advice and not participate in eavesdropping. Ever.

"Today begins your first project, class," Began Francis Bonnefoy, standing in front of the arranged easels. "You will have two weeks to complete your observation, capture and interpretation of your chosen item. However, in these next weeks all will be expected to complete at least three pilot drawings of different objects, before choosing your most favoured one as a final piece template." He sauntered over to the nearest window sill, a long hand gesturing towards the foliage and statues surrounding the Academy grounds.

"Of course, we are not yet specifically focusing on the architecture of this city, but by all means if you believe you can create a detailed interpretation of buildings then please do so. The criteria is for only inanimate objects to be used, therefore people may not be the central focus."

Someone's hand rose, but because of the easel Roderich could not see who it was. Francis nodded to the person. "Johannes?"

"What if the person were to be a still-life model," Johannes ventured, "then they would count as inanimate." The question made Roderich smile and the class collectively chuckled.

"There's always one," Murmured the professor as he clapped his hands once to silence his students once more. "Very well, then, Johannes, as you require specified instructions, we shall say no  _sentient_  or intelligent being may be the focus of this piece. That would leave yourself to be a candidate,  _oui_?" More laughter from the class as Johannes shook his head, a smirk barely concealed. In his peripheral vision, Roderich even noticed the typically stern Elizaveta giggling.

"Any art materials which are within the Academy's possession are yours to use, please take care seeking your inspiration and be sure to use pencil whilst designing. Mr Heinrich, if I catch you using ink for a template again you will be suspended from one of the the Academy's gorgeous staircases by your drawstrings."

Roderich heard an ashamed snort near the back of the room, and could only imagine how red the man's face was. "Understood, Professor."

 

"Good: begin!"

.

.

.

Roderich had gone straight to the music room he and Gilbert had stumbled across on their first night at the Academy. He heard music resonating in the halls, but as he neared he noted that it was not coming from that particular room. Regardless, he knocked on the thick door before entering.

_Mother would put me over her knee if she thought I had lost my manners._  As he suspected, the grand room was empty of people. There were music stands collected in the far left corner, and a harp sat upon the stage, opposite the piano Roderich had seen.

He clutched the sketchbook and pencil case tighter.

Instead of sitting on the steps of the stage, and sketch the piano from below as planned, he found himself sat on the stool before he had realised what was happening.

He lay down his accessories atop the smooth mahogany surface. Lifted the lid of the piano. Set his feet upon the pedals. Spread his fingers out like cobwebs over the keys, hovering, hesitant.

 

It felt as though he were doing something illegal.

 

Which is why he savoured the feeling of excitement as he began to play a soft tune; nothing of particular significance. Roderich did not even recognise it as a classical piece. It was simply a melody.

He had missed this: both sets of fingers moving in a set rhythm to maintain the notes, being able to close his eyes and have faith that his fingertips would lead him into a tranquil state of meditation. It was, for those few moments, bliss.

Roderich realised as his eyes fluttered open that this was his interpretation of his passion for music. One could not paint with one's eyes closed, after all.

Now that his mind was sharpened, he began to structure the movements of his fingers; he started to play Beethoven's No. 14, Moonlight Sonata. Hands in perfect synchrony, he recalled memories of hours spent trying to learn, to master this rather simple piece. The chords became directionally imbalanced, conveying a somewhat curious mood, the sounds almost like steps, descending, ascending, softening now one chord prevails -

"You are very good at that." The sudden voice made Roderich jump, accidentally pressing too hard on the keys to create a low, droning monotone.

Brushing back his hair, the Austrian abruptly turned to face the intrusive sound.

A man, dressed in black robes and cap, stood a few feet from the stage. Roderich stared, befuddled.  _I did not even hear him enter_.

"I - thank you," The words tumbled from his mouth clumsily. The man gave a gentle smile. "I did not mean to interrupt, only, I have to set this room up for a practice session next period. I am Professor Kierwald of the music department."

Standing and collecting his things, Roderich fought the blush which threatened to override his cheeks as he strode to meet the ageing musician. "Good morning, I am Roderich Edelstein."

 

"I do not recall seeing you in my class, are -"

 

"Actually, Professor, I am here on an art course." Roderich briefly lifted the art supplies as proof. Professor Kierwald's thin eyebrows rose, "Is that so. If you are this talented in music, I wonder what your artwork must look like," he commented offhandedly.

Roderich flashed an insincere smile. "Unsatisfying, as thinks every artist of their work, be it with chords or colours."

Kierwald tilted his head slightly. "I find it hard to believe that great musicians such as Beethoven or Chopin would ever be dissatisfied with the products of their hearts and souls. But I wish you luck with your course, Mr Edelstein." Roderich fought the urge to answer back. He knew that during the composing of his No. 14 Sonata, Beethoven himself had become so exasperated that he had reportedly remarked to fellow composer Carl Czerny: ' _surely I've written better things_ '.

Roderich un-clenched his jaw, which until now he did not notice had been tensed. "Thank you, Sir."

Just as he left, Professor Kierwald called after him, "If ever you do need encouragement in your efforts, feel free to come and play again."

Roderich walked out without acknowledging the last statement. He did not like the way that man spoke, as if he knew more than Roderich, as if Roderich was but a child. The Austrian detested many things; contempt and patronising were one of the worst duos to experience, and they often went hand-in-hand.

He by no means denied being a hypocrite, though. If he wanted to show contempt or talk down to somebody, he would; the shame of being the receiver was too much for his fragile pride to compute.

_I shall have to sketch that piano another time_.

.

.

.

Exiting the previous hallway, Roderich once more passed his classroom, which was filled with other students, all scrambling to find necessary supplies, competing for space or in one case, having immense trouble adjusting an easel. Glancing at a clock in the corridor, the brunette saw that much of the morning had already passed: 11:15AM. Nearby he heard many footsteps as a class was dismissed.

For the art students attending the Academy, their curriculum was somewhat more relaxed, considering that the majority of their work was solitary and individual.

For example, the only reasons they had professors for this course was to ensure that students had access to professional artists who could guide and inform them on how to be high-achieving creators.

Deciding that the best inspiration often came of its own accord, Roderich made his way to the canteen, aiming to sit at one of the empty tables and gaze out of windows until a useful idea presented itself.

Except that as he arrived, the Austrian noticed that not all of the tables were unoccupied.

_Him again_. The hunched figure of Gilbert Beilschmidt lurched over the table before him, forehead resting on his crossed arms. Something did not seem right. While it was true enough that Roderich barely knew this man, such a closed posture appeared a contradistinction to Gilbert's usual expressive behaviour.

Resigning himself to play the confidante, Roderich stepped over to where he sat and took a place opposite him.

 

At first Gilbert flinched, shrinking further into his cower before risking a glance at whom now sat with him. "Specs?"

Roderich folded his arms frustratedly over his wrinkled apron. "It's Edelstein."

Gilbert shot him a dubious look, one silvery eyebrow arched. "What are you doin' here? Don't you have class?"

"Independent work. And I am here because I wanted to be alone, but after I noticed your sorry self I thought you might appreciate a conversational partner."

The other man snorted. "That's unusually thoughtful of you, Priss. I was certain you couldn't care less about me."

"Speaking of unusualities, perhaps you could divulge to me why you were drowning in self-pity before I came here."

"Believe it or not, your being here did not drain my puddle of woe. I rather feel it has begun to rain."

Roderich sighed, adjusting his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. "Insisting on sulking will only make you more unapproachable to others."

"Ah, destructive criticism, how I have missed it." Catching a glimpse of Gilbert's pale face under his white locks, Roderich's violet eyes narrowed. "Why are your eyes red?" 

The albino's fingertips tapped impatiently upon the wooden tabletop. "You know why my eyes are red, you -"

"No," Interrupted Roderich carefully, "I mean, have you been cr-"

"Hayfever. Stupid spring weather." At the older man's response, the brunette simply shot him a sceptical look, one which Gilbert did not see because he still refused to meet his eyes.

"Beilschmidt." The monotone of that one word brought forth a sharp outlet of breath from the white-haired German, and he hoisted his shoulders to sit up straighter. "I...just finished my first class in which I was a life-model."

The Austrian wanted to query as to how that experience had been, but decided to remain silent. Gilbert continued. "I was to stand in a specified pose for forty minutes as they sketched me, wearing only my trousers. Did I mention I've been officially employed by the Academy?"

"You did tell me, yes."

"I had a meeting with senior professors here yesterday. They said I would be on minimum wage, to work as an assistant and model when needed, in return for them allowing me to stay. Anyway, in the class, I...they were staring at me."

In the distant music room, a tune blossomed to fill the buildings of the Academy, instantly stealing the attention of Roderich's ears. He recognised this movement, too. Air, by Johann Sebastian Bach. Its lighthearted notes carried towards them like feathers on a gust of wind.

Even Gilbert had paused to enjoy it momentarily.

"I do not wish to alarm you," Replied Roderich eventually, "but observation classes generally do command the necessity for staring at the object one focuses upon."

"No need to be saucy. I meant, that they seemed wary and disgusted with my appearance. I'm used to that, of course, but I thought artists would have more appreciation for the unnatural." Gilbert rested his cheek on a balled fist. "They were even laughing at me, and mocking me as they worked." Roderich had no clue how to respond.  _I cannot empathise with him. However_ … His thoughts reeled back to just after he had met the German, when he had fallen to the Viennese pavement and no one would help him. They had just...stared.  _Perhaps I can relate, somewhat._  "Are you certain?"

Gilbert's tongue flicked across dry lips. "One of them said, 'it is a challenge to capture imperfection on canvas'. What the hell does that mean?" The question was undoubtedly rhetorical; the brunette answered nonetheless.

"It means those students are insolent and that they clearly do not harbour respect for those willing to be scrutinised in the name of art."

Such words took both men by surprise. It was in that second that Roderich realised he had never insulted Gilbert based on his looks. His personality was another matter, and one the Austrian would argue was worth challenging, but not the man's condition.

Now those crimson orbs had refocused on Roderich. "It was a pretty intimidating experience, but hey, I'm gettin' paid. I can suffer a few offending comments now and then." He brushed some hair from before his eyes. "You...really don't think I deserved that?"

Roderich was offended. "I - of course not! Nobody should be outright penalised for their appearance, especially if it cannot be altered." Those same dark red eyes were overshadowed by a sinking brow. "Don't pity me, Princess. Even if I could change what I look like, I wouldn't."

"I wasn't -"

"You upper-class pigs think you're better than everyone else, and never miss an opportunity to imply so -"

"I was agreeing with you!" Roderich slammed his palms down as he stood up, his fringe falling from its common style.  _It is always about the class system for him!_  "For goodness' sake, I  _agree_  that you should not have been treated that way. Different is not imperfect, Gilbert. Evidently few people understand that."

When he finally looked up, Roderich noticed that Gilbert had been fixing him with a surprised gaze.

"What?" Barked the Austrian, a tinge of red colouring his cheeks. The older male leaned back partially. "You didn't strike me as one so concerned with equality. It's also strange to hear allied words coming from your mouth."

"Yes, well," Roderich dusted himself down, as if he could brush the unwelcome aggression off, "you had best not become accustomed to that. Frankly if they had decided to judge you based on your previous occupation and current crass mannerisms I would have joined in." That earned a smile from the taller as he, too, stood up to leave. "Bet you only came here to hear me talk of stripping in front of spectators," Gilbert retorted with a grin. "My, my, what voyeuristic fetishes are you hiding, little Edelstein?"

Roderich blanched. "Do not be disgusting. Besides I am not the one obsessed with the opinions of others."

Gilbert strode out of the room, throwing a casual comment over his shoulder. "Yeah, like I've never heard an aristocrat say  _that_  before."

.

.

.

 


	6. Chapter 5

A/N: Here is chapter 5, please enjoy. The sass is strong with these boys.

* * *

 

Roderich had ventured outside of the Academy building, if only in the hopes that all the fresh air would cool the burning sensation on his cheeks. Honestly, the German was intent on making him out to be a pervert! And it annoyed - or rather humiliated - Roderich to no end.

Yes, as his parents kept reminding him, he was young, and in his prime to be married, but he had no such plans yet. Maybe not ever. Being the self-centred man he was, Roderich disliked the idea of being married, of having to share whatever wealth he inherited, and of having to establish and maintain an intimate relationship with someone.

His thoughts, his time, his heart had always been dedicated to music. He held many of the great composers in a type of reverence that some would describe to be tender. During his schooling years, many of Roderich’s fellow classmates had teased him about being in love with his musical role models, despite them being not only male but long deceased.

 Naturally back then, he had denied every such accusation. Nowadays, particularly after his string of unsuccessful auditions as a pianist, the Austrian had re-evaluated his feelings.

He had concluded that he had never exhibited a forbidden love towards famous classical composers like Mozart; no, simply a strong sense of admiration. Because Roderich had very few friends whilst growing up, despite his wealthy background. But he had always been able to rely on the compositions of music, on the products of infamous figureheads whenever he felt alone.

_Looking back now_ , Roderich mused, _I do suppose my childhood was quite caged_. A lonely experience which thankfully had ended before it had properly begun.  

 

Careful not to trample on the impeccably groomed gardens, he seated himself on a nearby bench. Through his spectacles, he spied a small collection of flowers next to his spot. _Primroses_.

A very delicate breed of flower, he understood, one which needed careful cultivation if it was to reach its full glory. These primroses varied in colours, from white to yellow to purple. Every bloom had petals which resembled watercolour paints dripped on top of each other, to create blends of differing shades.                                               But the more Roderich studied them, the more one particular flower stood out. This one was a faded red colour; yellow spread from its centre outward via little capillaries. Its leaves had wilted and seemed to wrap around the petals as a shawl would an elderly lady’s shoulders.

_It appears this flower did not receive the appropriate amount of sunlight._ It would have been a valid reason for its shabby appearance; it was the only flower shaded by an outcrop of the Academy at this angle. _It is a wonder it has lived this long._

Without precedence, Roderich’s own words from earlier leapt into his mind: _different is not imperfect, Gilbert_. The red petals certainly reminded him of the albino’s eyes.

In fact, the total scruffiness of this flower presented an ideal representation of the man. This plant seemed to be comforting itself, just as he had found Gilbert doing in the canteen.

 

His thoughts thrumming with promise, Roderich opened his accompanying sketchbook, took into his hand a sharp pencil, and got to work.

 

It took him what felt like hours to capture the flower’s shape, its details, its finest intricacies. Even during the lengthy, infrequent breaks he had taken, the Austrian always knew there was another part of the blossom to be scrutinised, imitated by pencil. Roderich lamented that he had not brought any coloured pencils with him; instead, he settled for a darker shade to represent the red, and a darker shading yet to show the shadows. In fact, it was the shadows which bothered him the most, what with the moving sunlight almost constantly adjusting their location, but he managed to recreate the object before him before sundown. Other students had been passing him all day; music students, fellow art students, architecture students, some of whom had given him intrigued glances as they passed, some even trying to see what he had been so painstakingly drawing.

However, as soon as he noticed spots of navy seeping into the sky, he hurriedly shut his book, gathered his things and headed inside. Dinner was at 6pm every day, and lasted an hour and a half. Heading up a grandeur staircase to his dormitory room, Roderich glanced at a clock on the wall above: five past seven. How had time elapsed so quickly?

Dammit. They served no meals after 7:30pm. He doubted they even kept leftovers. Fishing his key from his pocket, Roderich unlocked his door and, after setting down the sketchbook containing his precious drawing, flopped ungracefully onto the bed. The sheets were plain, cream. Only two pillows. At his manor home, Roderich had slept atop four pillows. And his sheets were silk. He knew he was not the only one from a wealthy background - most Vienna Academy students were of aristocracy - but he doubted that he could accustom to this less extravagant existence as others had. He was even missing the maids, not that there would be enough room for them to fit into and therefore clean this cubby-hole in which he currently resided. Even the wallpaper was blank; one would presume that at an academy of fine arts, every corner would be spruced up. The lack of colours in this room rendered it wearisome.

 

He despised having to be surrounded by such blandness and such colour simultaneously: everything material around him, his dorm, his clothes, were dull; yet the artworks, the art supplies, even this entire establishment itself, was full of beauty and decadence.

 

_Ah_ , _well_ , he consoled himself as his stomach began to growl, _I_ _still_ _have_ _my_ _glasses_. The spectacles he wore so proudly always filled him with a sense of sophistication - at least, Roderich would rather pretend that he wore spectacles out of fashion rather than face the harsh truth that without them he was conclusively blind.

He remembered his mother placing the wireframes onto him when he was five years old, the cold metal stinging his nose and pinching behind his ears for the first time. But she had said with a smile: _“How sophisticated! You look like true nobility._ ”

Ever since, Roderich had used the presence of his glasses as a reminder to always be reserved, to act as befitted an Austrian gentleman, and to remind him to only ever look down upon those of lesser status.

 However, he had not always followed those unspoken rules, and he was not proud of that revelation. Roderich could not even bring himself to completely reject Gilbert, despite him undoubtedly being a commoner plucked from the suffering working class by his own gloved hand. Gilbert was a thief, a rude, cocky little thief with albinism and an inferiority complex. He had not deserved the Austrian nobleman’s help.

 And yet, Roderich could not hate him.

Sighing, Roderich levered himself off the bed, stretched, righted his artist’s robes and strode down to the large dining hall, which was now full of resonating dinnertime pandemonium created by the students and professors alike. All along the long benches, students sat in their respective groups, consuming their desserts with the graceful table manners likely forced onto them from birth. After all, as Roderich’s father had told him, even when a nobleman is starving, he must not disgrace himself by eating as would befit a pig.

 

Roderich hadn’t quite reached the point of starvation yet.

 

Glancing around to the art groups, he spotted a familiar head of white hair. Gilbert, he saw, had managed to make friends. He was chatting idly away with Elizaveta, the auburn-haired girl, and a few other women from art classes. The male students, apparently, wanted nothing to do with him.

As he looked on at the harem spectacle before him, Roderich felt a twinge tighten his insides. Why should he care to whom Gilbert spoke? What did it matter if they were all women? All young, attractive, intelligent women crowding around him like moths to a flame…

Roderich had never suited the colour green, and he would most certainly not start wearing it now, inside or out.

He decided to skip dessert.

What he failed to notice as he left the hall, however, was the pair of ruby eyes that flicked towards his back, noting his presence with confusion.

.

.

.

_Knock knock knock._

“...It is open,” Roderich answered distractedly as he sat at his desk, preening over the flower sketch.

 

“...Hello. I brought you some pudding.” The clipped voice caused Roderich to lift his head in greeting. Gilbert stood in the open doorway, something wrapped in a napkin held before himself.

Standing up, the Austrian found himself speechless.

“I saw you come to dinner late,” Gilbert explained. “But you didn’t come sit with us, so I borrowed a pudding for you.”

 

“Borrowed?”

 

“Or liberated, whichever term avoids the implication of theft,” Holding out the little wrapped package, Roderich took it, and looked inside. Viennese shortbread. “Uh...thank you.”

Stepping inside the room, Gilbert gave it a once-over. He nodded. “Yes, your room is just as pathetic as mine.”

Roderich silently agreed that blandness did somehow equate to being pathetic, but his mind simultaneously presented him a contradiction: _Gilbert is, by common definition, bland. He has little colour. So why is he so interesting?_

 

Dampening this internal query, the Austrian turned to face his visitor. “I imagine that all dormitory rooms have the same décor.” His voice seemed more frustrated than he had intended it to be.

Gilbert frowned, folding his arms over a straightened chest. “Have I done something to upset you? Or was your dinner too sour?”

Roderich waved a hand dismissively, not wishing to enter another verbal jousting session with the Berliner*. “It is merely...artist’s frustration. I have been focused on but one drawing all day and such an endeavour can take its toll on one unaccustomed to pencil work.” He gestured to the flower sketch which lay spread over his desk.

Stepping forward, the white-haired German nodded slightly. “Not a bad effort, Specs. Colour would benefit it, though.”

“I disagree. If it had needed colour, I would have added colour,” Roderich defended, adjusting his glasses. He would not concede that the primary reason his drawing was devoid of pigment was that he had lacked motivation to acquire his paintset. “Colour is not always necessary for an interpretive piece.”

 

“In that case, how is it interpretive?”

 

“It is a dying flower, with a dearth of colour. The inference is that many things tend to lose their colour as they near the gates of Heaven. Flora and fauna. Fabrics. Humans-”

 

“By that logic,” Gilbert sneered, “I should be long dead.”

Roderich raised an eyebrow. “Must the entire world revolve around you?” Though he was well aware that his own criticism now was ironic, as the drawing itself was based upon his new acquaintance.

“Yes. I am a worthy Sun.” That earned a derisive smile from the younger man as he began to tidy away his art supplies. It was getting late and his creative stamina had been practically drained.

“You forget, also, Herr Beilschmidt,” He continued as he tidied, “that I specified many organisms lose _their_ colour as they die, I did not say that they lose _colour_. Ergo, you may have albinism, but it is your natural pigment, correct?”

Silence.

Roderich looked at Gilbert, wondering if he had asked an offending question. But the man simply looked back with a thoughtful expression.

“...Correct,” He finally answered.

“Then you retain your natural colour and it indicates that you are alive and well. The concern will arrive when your irises begin to fade.” As he spoke, the Austrian found himself being scrutinised by those very same ruby orbs, both of which held a minor realisation within.

 

Allowing an elegant upturn of lips, Gilbert, already standing within Roderich’s sphere of personal space, leaned further in until their hair touched, white and brown.

Roderich immediately registered increased physiological arousal: his heart thundered in his ears, his palms began to sweat, his torso heated up, and his extremities became colder. Their lips were inches apart, neither backing down from the other.

Though the aristocrat did not appreciate the sudden invasion, he was determined not to retreat.

A few seconds passed.

Gilbert Beilschmidt chuckled softly, his breath tickling Roderich’s lower lip.

“You could have been quite the philosopher, were you not so prejudiced.”

 

With that, the taller male exited the dormitory room. Something deep inside Roderich would that the man return, wanted to keep his presence and his appearance and his uniqueness close, if only to have someone to hold on to as his mind entered strange and uncharted lands in which all manner of unexpected revelations awaited him.

He wanted to know more about Gilbert Beilschmidt.

He wanted Gilbert to colour his world.

.

.

.

* Berliner is the German term for an inhabitant of... Berlin, surprisingly enough. But it also means doughnut. So, in 1963, when President John F. Kennedy visited Berlin and gave his famous speech, he technically also announced that " _Ich bin ein Berliner_  "- I am a doughnut.

 

 


	7. Chapter 6

A/N: Chapter 6, for your viewing pleasure.

 

* * *

“I fancy an exploration of the city,” Gilbert declared, buttoning his shirt as he strode alongside Roderich through the numerous hallways of the Academy building.

“Alright. Goodbye,” Replied the brunette wryly. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of the barely-dressed Prussian. “Do not parade around half-clothed like some common -”

“Thief?”

“Gigolo.” Gilbert’s expression soured. They reached Roderich’s classroom and stepped inside. Gilbert had evidently just served in another life-model class and, as a handyman, was expected to assist with the unpacking and organising of supplies for almost every department. Though, for some unfathomable reason, he favoured the art department.

“Such improper dress is certain to result in your expulsion from the Academy.” Chided the younger as he set about arranging his art supplies gently upon his easel, on which his drawing rested.

The week had passed uneventfully; Roderich had proceeded to transfer his interpretive drawing onto a larger canvas, though he insisted to Professors Bonnefoy, Williams and others that ‘pencil will be all the tools I need’. Having decided on a course of defence, the Austrian was set on maintaining it.

“Improper - they have  _nude_ modelling classes here! Particularly in this department there are quite literally naked people everywhere. The still-life sessions are worryingly popular for a city so chaste as this one,” Gilbert retorted, moving desks out of the way and setting up other easels with other’s work ready for defining, “perhaps it is  _Zeitgeist_ * that Vienna finally opened itself up to liberalism.”

Roderich scoffed, making sure that his shirt collar was tied properly. “What is necessary in classrooms can be unacceptable elsewhere. There are also women present in this faculty; you would not want to frighten them with your bold lack of undress, would you, Beilschmidt?”

To this question the older simply offered a withering look. “Yes I forgot how terrified females are of the masculine torso.” He tightened his belt and straightened his cuffs. “God forbid they see a knee cap.”

“Sarcasm is a device used by the lesser man.”

“Hypocrisy is a device used by the coward,” Gilbert raised a pale eyebrow as he smirked. “I hereby demote you to peasantry.” Roderich found himself unable to conjure a suitable counter; his mouth moved, failing to produce words, and he gave up. Gilbert smiled victoriously. “As I was saying,” He continued, “I intend to tour the upper levels of Vienna city, the ones which do not rest solely upon the backs of impoverished families.”

“Very well. Any city has its underclass.” Roderich began to sharpen his graphite pencil, oblivious to the short glare the Prussian directed his way.

“The underclass is always made apparent by its communal agreement to wear silk.”

Roderich’s head snapped up. “How dare -” 

Other students began to enter the room, along with Professor Bonnefoy. Dressed in his usual swordsman’s attire, he approached the pair fairly quickly.  The scent of an expensive perfume filled Roderich’s nostrils. Near to him, he glimpsed Gilbert also wrinkling his nose slightly at the suddenly omnipotent odour.

“ _Grüẞ Gott, meine Herren_ ,” Bonnefoy began, his French accent softening his words. Roderich gulped before returning the greeting. Gilbert remained silent, returning to his practical work.

“I see your interpretation piece is coming along well,” Bonnefoy stood before the work atop the easel, the Austrian stood awkwardly to the side.  “Are you certain that pencil shading will do it justice?”

That comment reminded him of Gilbert’s criticism last night. Internally, Roderich sighed.  _Perhaps they are not as different from each other as they first seemed._ “Yes, Professor. I am confident that it will result in a desired monochrome effect.”

Bonnefoy gave a pout which forewarned of his dislike. “The colourless art style is becoming outdated, I’m afraid. It lacks enticement. You know, I met a student of this Academy last year with a similar style to yours.” He paused, his chin now cradled by his thumb and forefinger as he contemplated something. “His name was...Hitler, I believe. Adolf Hitler. Very bland man; he insisted on painting very historical portraits of Vienna. Admired the architecture. They were nice pieces, but superficial.”

“Do you mean to insult me?”

“Of course not. One must not assume that similarity means equality. As soon as I met Herr Hitler, I understood that he did not possess the heart of an artist,” Bonnefoy looked down at Roderich, whose brow now furrowed with uncertainty. “He saw beauty, he tried to capture beauty, but he could not, because he could not comprehend it.” He leaned in, and Roderich briefly wondered what the residents of Vienna had against allowing individuals their personal space. “Despite our differences, you are different. Your understanding of beauty is already there, Herr Edelstein, from what I have  _heard_ . It is just restrained.”

The brunette adjusted his spectacles, trying his best not to show alarm that his art teacher may have been told about him playing the abandoned piano. “This man, Adolf Hitler,” He started, “what happened to him?”

Francis gave a gentle shrug. “ _Je ne sais pas_. I do not know. But this Academy would not accept him - a wise decision, I must say. I do sometimes wonder what he is currently up to, though.” With that, the professor moved away to converse with his other students.

Roderich’s violet eyes were drawn back to his creation. Yes, maybe just this once, he could put this criticism to good use. He needed inspiration. He needed influence.

Gilbert was at the back of the classroom, placing boxes and bottles of powdered paints upon shelves. Roderich approached him, and said softly to his back, “I will accompany you, when you decide to explore Vienna. But I would that we visit the  Museum of Historical Art .”

The older did not even turn around. “It appears that we both agree that you should get out more.”

.

.

.

The flower was the central piece. 

Looking all around the room, Roderich saw that his work was incredibly different from any other painting; everyone was painting landscapes, or fabrics, or abstract images which at first seemed indecipherable, but became clearer the longer one observed them.

His was...just a flower. Simply a fragmented primrose.

Or maybe it did not have to be. 

Rushing to fetch the necessary supplies, Roderich soon had gathered up a collection of water colours: white, red, and black.  Using the fine tip of a paintbrush in his hand, the Austrian dipped it into the smallest, faintest amount of paint. Lightly, with trembling fingers, he touched paintbrush to canvas.

As he worked, a brief glimmer of confidence appeared in his expression.  _Perhaps I do have an eye for artwork after all_.

.

.

.

Three hours later, Roderich was feeling the extreme effects of lethargy weighing upon his limbs and his consciousness alike. Despite recently attending lunch at the Academy, food had not seemed to revive him so much as tempt him into a trance-like functionality. 

He had spoken briefly with a few fellow classmates, but he was surprised to find himself increasingly left alone during his stay here. He understood the concept and the necessity of independent work, of course he did, but as he had been raised in a family which prided itself upon establishing a network of communications - particularly at reunions or galas - it was rather strange to be so detached now. Roderich had never really enjoyed aimless airs and graces exchanged between him and his distant relatives, nor had he liked the praise bestowed upon him by the colleagues of his father.

 In fact, he preferred to endure people’s strong criticism, an overt challenge, rather than their sycophantic niceties. 

_“He’s a bit short, is he not?”_

_“Might he also be blind?”_

_“With any luck, he will still be healthy enough to produce legitimate offspring!”_

His mother, bless her heart, had forced him into attending every single social gathering, if only as a trophy son. After all, that was the purpose of social gatherings: to show off one’s kin, and to auction them off in pairs to ensure a future generation of pure bloodlines.

The Austrian had lost count of all the lovely young women to whom he had been introduced. He could no longer recall all of their faces, or their voices, or even the beautiful dresses they had been wearing. Though each of those ladies had been in the exact same position as him, with even more pressure, perhaps, to have healthy heirs and have no opportunities for any career other than a mother, Roderich felt no sympathy for them. The rich had their duties, just as the poor did.

Roderich had long ago accepted that he had his role to play in his world, whether or not he wanted it. Just as long as he had his music, he had never questioned anything.

He had never needed to.

The paintbrush stilled in his hand. He moved the tip millimetres from the paper, lest the paint drip onto the surface.  He took a step back, analysing his first official piece produced during his stay at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts.

Professor Bonnefoy, who had been patiently reclining at a desk, pouring over the students’ art portfolios, clocked the movement. He raised his finely-haired head, taking mild interest in the way the Austrian stroked his smooth chin, head tilted, violet eyes narrowed at his painting. Eventually, Francis saw, he deemed the artwork finished, with a slight upward tilt of the jaw. 

The simplest gestures betrayed the boldest emotions. Francis recognised this one: pride. 

Roderich noticed his professor once again making his way over to him. He swallowed. 

“I believe this piece is finished, Professor.”

Bonnefoy scrutinised it, cool blue eyes tracing every line. “I see you have amended your design,” Was all he said of the finished product.  Roderich decided that the comment was neutral in tone; it seemed likely that the Academy would label it a starting point for his art career.

“Be sure to file it in your portfolio. It is important to show the development of your works. Well done on completing your first piece a few days early, perhaps you can begin planning the identity project piece.”

Roderich gave a curt nod. He glared at his professor’s back as he walked away; the ambiguity of the judgement irritated him beyond belief.

After filing his sketch and project piece into the large portfolio, he went about searching for Gilbert.

The one person on this Earth, who Roderich did not want to see the flower painting.

.

.

.

He found him in one of the sculpting rooms, after seeking advice from a secretary. Gilbert was busy packing tools into their respective drawers and boxes. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his shirt collar loose. Even from across the room, the Austrian could see the sweat and dirt accumulating on his pale skin. 

Gilbert, clearly exhausted, perched uncomfortably atop one of the opened drawers, his back against an indistinguishable statue. Through dusty eyelashes the albino spotted the younger man. “Have you come to help me move these supplies?”

Roderich licked his lips. “Not even if you paid me.” He observed the room with disinterest. “Of all the disciplines in this Academy, I expect sculpting to be the most inconvenient to cleaners.”

“You’re telling me,” Gilbert stretched; his spine gave an audible crack. “When this class finished, some students offered to help with clearance, but I told them to go. I’m just grateful that I don’t have to sweep the floor,” He rubbed a foot in a semicircle on the ground: a clear line was exposed, indicating the amount of sand and debris which had collected there. 

“Damn sculptors and their chiselling. Architects, too. Some of them are personable, but others are miserable as shit.” Red eyes met violet. “Today I had a spat with this Italian immigrant about how statues are balanced, and he talked down to me. Worse than the insults you give me, Specs.”

“It is Edelstein.”

“As I was saying, he mouthed off - the typical comments, so I -” The older man suddenly paused and looked away, as if he were embarrassed. “I might have accidentally pushed a block of stone onto his foot.”

“Accidentally?”

“That’s how I made it appear, yes.” Roderich raised an eyebrow, but before any further remark could be made, Gilbert jumped up. “Needless to say, I’ve made another enemy here.”  As he neared the younger man, the stench of body odour became even stronger. Roderich made a face.  _I may have preferred Professor Bonnefoy’s perfume_ . “You smell terrible.”

“Thank you.”   


“You must wash yourself before we go into the city proper.”   


Gilbert blinked in surprise. “Giving orders doesn't suit you. You’re more of a sheep.”

This time, Roderich was able to deflect the jab with one of his own. “If I am a sheep, you, sir, are a weasel. That would indeed explain the disgusting scent about you. Now hurry up, the day is wasting.”

.

.

.

**Getreidemarkt, Vienna, Austria.**

****

“Where exactly are we headed first?”

“I don’t much care, as long as we visit the Museum.” The late February weather had brought no warmth, only more hints of frost. Roderich used to think that he had been lucky to join the Academy when he did, narrowly avoiding the often freezing and snow-covered winter of Vienna. He felt less lucky now. In fact, he could barely feel his fingers, despite the thick gloves he wore. The sun shone coldly onto both figures as they made their way along the pavement, heading north past the Academy, up towards the Museumsquartier.

His double-breasted coat and thick cotton trousers did little to battle the afternoon chill. Huffing out shallow breaths, the Austrian glanced up at the Berliner who shuffled alongside him. He wore only his usual attire, no insulating button-up nor even a coat. He wore his typical dandy shirt, still spotted with dirt. His arms were clenched tightly over his chest: a vain attempt to preserve his core temperature, Roderich realised.

“A-alright. M-maybe we should f-find a nice café,” Gilbert stuttered. “O-or, anywhere with a heating system -”

“For goodness’ sake,” Muttered the younger, turning to cross the road between the tram cars. “Follow me.”

.

.

.

It did not take Roderich long to find a tailor in an esteemed city like Vienna. That, and his father had previously recommended he find this particular place during his course, as it was ‘the best fit for an Austrian gentleman’. At least if Gilbert were clothed properly he might make it back to his dorm room before contracting pneumonia.

Inside, it was warm and dry, with a distinctly humble atmosphere. Virtually empty. Racks of coats and three-piece suits hung on hangers, neatly arranged according to size, fabric, style and colour. Shoes were stored on a collection of drawers and display cabinets; upon plastic heads there were a variety of hats, from bowler to top. Near the back of the tailor there were a few fitting rooms, all covered with individual curtains. The shop was made from glazed mahogany.

Gilbert rushed to the nearest radiator, pressing himself against it. He let out a relieved sigh as he cast Roderich a look. “And I thought you would leave me to freeze in the street.”

“A tempting idea, I grant you.” Roderich began to whisper conspiratorially. “Please do not steal anything.” At this, Gilbert’s expression was deadpan. “I can’t even feel my bloody fingers, _how_ would I go about stealing?”

“Thieves make do-”

“May I help you, gentlemen?” The tailor approached them, old and withered - but impeccably well dressed. His gaze glided over Roderich, but he observed Gilbert reverently through his monocle. “Is this man troubling you, sir?”

Roderich need not ask for clarification: he knew the question was directed at him. He straightened his back, only just taller than the stooped shop owner. “No, believe it or not he is with me. He is looking for a formal suit.”

Though still wary, the prospect of business placated the man. “Ah, one worthy of this city, you mean.”

“But of course, my good man.”

 

Within minutes, the tailor had picked out a suit. Black, tailcoat, top hat, Brogues. Gilbert, who had now joined Roderich in the centre of the shop, nodded in approval.

“This should fit you well, Herr…”

“Beilschmidt.”

“Herr Beilschmidt.” The old man pronounced the name as if it were a bitter taste. _He must know that it is not Austrian,_ thought Roderich as he waited for Gilbert outside one of the fitting rooms.

 

The curtain rustled. “Don’t peek, Princess.”

Roderich nudged his ankle with his foot. “Do not speak too much, you’ll waste your two brain cells.”

“Are you ever nice?” Gilbert grunted as he pulled on an item of clothing. “To anyone?”

“To women and fellow noblemen. You are not exactly the easiest company to keep.” The old tailor passed them, giving Roderich a strange look, as if he were not sure of how to interpret their exchange. Luckily, another gentleman stepped through the door, the bell gave little ting, and he was distracted once more.

“I do recall,” Roderich continued softly, “the last time we were in the city, you called me a swine.”

“An honest mistake,” Came the muffled reply, “those glasses do pinch your nose quite a bit. What with my concussion, I only saw a pig.”

The brunette grit his teeth. “The least you could do is pay your gracious donor some respect. I _am_ buying you a suit, after all.” The rustling stopped. Then, “ _You’re_ buying it for me? I thought I was going to have to get it.”

“With what money?”

“Jeez, it’s almost as if I’m employed at the Academy or something. I do have some savings on my person.”

Suddenly the curtain was drawn, making the younger man jump.

The man before him was completely different than the skulking thief he’d met in Vienna two weeks ago.

Clad all in black, the dark fabric contrasted blindingly with his pale skin and white hair. The tailcoat reached down to his calves, and the waistcoat wrapped neatly around his torso, hugging his abdomen. The shoes were recently shined and reflected the lighting. The top hat made him seem taller. Under the brim of said hat, his ruby eyes were shrouded in shadow.

Gilbert Beilschmidt looked devilishly handsome.

He grinned down at Roderich, turning, flaunting the outfit. Standing opposite the mirror, he admired himself shamelessly. “Does my behind look big in this?”

With a slight blush, Roderich realised that he did cast a glance below Gilbert’s waistline. _It was only a brief look_ , he consoled himself as he offered the tailor the money, _it means nothing._

.

.

.

They walked in silence, passing more and more townspeople. The noise of the crowds began to rise.

Roderich glanced at Gilbert. “Warmer now?”

He was answered with a comfortable smirk. “Toasty.” Gilbert seemed to want to say something else, but for whatever reason he changed the topic. “Let’s go to Mariahilferstraẞe. I hear it has a good market.”

They continued walking along the pavement, eventually crossing the road, turning left. Mariahilferstraẞe was bustling with people. Rather upper-class people, Roderich noted. It was with such a realisation that he had the urge to ask Gilbert something. “Beilschmidt.”

“Yeah?”

“Why would _you_ frequent such an area of Vienna?”

As they swayed to avoid the groups of businessmen and wealthy dames, all clad in extravagant robes. Now, what with Gilbert’s new clothes, both he and Roderich blended in perfectly, even if Gilbert’s pale hair and unusual eyes did attract a few glances.

In reply to the Austrian’s question, the Berliner simply looked at him, one thin eyebrow risen, as if he expected Roderich to figure it out.

With a scowl, he did just that. “This was a hunting ground of yours, was it not?”

A horse and carriage rattled past. With amusement, Roderich saw that Gilbert seemed visibly uncomfortable around horses now. _Serves him right. Thief._

 

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Thieves take what they can get.”

“Veritable leeches of society.”

On either side of them, tall buildings loomed. Mostly shops and hotels and restaurants, all with many thick-framed windows. A few spires pierced the mottled grey sky, and telephone cables stretched like obsidian serpents between the roofs. All along the shopfronts, protective parasol-esque fabric was held above them over struts.

The market was being held today, and, just as Gilbert had said, it did look rather good.

There were several stalls filled with various fruit, dried meats, vegetables and homemade goods. Pastries, biscuits and bread, all packed up neatly in well-covered boxes. A few people were trying to flog items of clothing, or cheap mechanical objects sold for at least twice their original value. Roderich took all of this in as he strode past each stall, narrowing his eyes not only at the prices, but at the quality of some of aforementioned goods.

Gilbert was forced to walk behind him, due to the masses of people, carrying his little paper bag in which his dirtier clothes resided. Everyone was so loud; Roderich had always detested walking around busy marketplaces. If they were relatively empty, that suited him just fine, but when there were so many figures bumping into him, chatting loudly, laughing raucously or giggling merrily, it just put him in a foul mood. _Not to mention all the opportunities for thievery,_ he thought, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the older man as he reached inside his coat, touching his wallet to assure himself.

 Oblivious to the younger’s resentment, Gilbert just kept on smiling at people, and tipping his hat to the ladies who passed by, all modestly clothed in blouses and long skirts. After all, the more one can charm one’s victims, the easier the execution of the crime.

Finally, upon reaching a fairly deserted row of fruit stalls, Roderich stopped to peruse his surroundings.

Gilbert almost walked into him. “Didn’t know you had the hots for oranges.”

“I am only browsing.”

To one side of the boxes were ripe Weirouge apples. The owner was haggling with a few customers; Roderich glimpsed Gilbert’s pale, long-fingered hand reaching out, curling around an apple -

Roderich’s own hand clamped Gilbert’s wrist, squeezing. “Stop.”

Red eyes gleamed. “What? I can’t afford it -”

“That is no reason to steal one.” He gripped the wrist tighter, so much so that Gilbert winced. He finally dropped the fruit. “You are already fed at the Academy, anyway. Why would you need extra food?”

Gilbert looked away. “Just - wanted to try one,” He muttered. Roderich tilted his jaw up in realisation. _Ah, you do have a sense of shame, after all._

Without meeting the Austrian’s eyes, Gilbert shuffled over to the stalls on the other side of the street, suddenly appearing very interested in hand-crafted jewellery. Roderich considered buying him an apple, but frankly, he had no intentions about rewarding unacceptable social behaviour. He crossed over to him.

“Perhaps you were hoping to pin any blame on me.” The suspicion in his tone was clear.

Turning abruptly to him, Gilbert puffed out his chest in defiance. “What an unruly speculation. I am positively flabbergasted. Incredibly mortified. To think, my friend Edelstein would accuse me of perjury -”

“You wanted me to pay for it, didn’t you?”

“Bingo,” Gilbert chuckled with a wink. “Like they’d ever suspect a _gentleman_ of theft.”

Roderich blinked. “A wolf in sheep’s clothing is still a wolf.”

For once, Gilbert did not present a fiery retort as was typical of him. This naturally inclined Roderich to believe that he had won a verbal victory, but this belief was horribly crushed when the Austrian noticed that Gilbert was actually looking past him. A brief expression of fear crossed his features, at such a speed that Roderich had no time to comment on it.

He tried to look around, to find the source of his distraction, but Gilbert swatted his arm.

“Movement attracts the eye,” Was all the explanation he offered.

Slowly, he looked down at the collection before him, hands wavering over the smooth wooden bracelets or braided necklaces. For some reason, despite his own curiosity, Roderich decided to follow suit. Perhaps, he debated, it was better he not know what had caught Gilbert’s attention so intensely.

He doubted that he had ever seen Gilbert fearful before. This was not the kind of fear exhibited when one is on the verge of dropping heavy boxes of art supplies, nor would it be the kind shown before being trampled by a horse and carriage.

This was a fear borne of recognition.

Unbeknown to Roderich, this recognition was already being reciprocated.

Behind him, a gruff voice spoke. “Beil.” Just from that one word, Roderich could tell that this was no Austrian; he was a Slav.

Gilbert cursed between gritted teeth and tightened lips. He raised his head so that the brim of his hat no longer provided shelter for his eyes. The cocky grin which Roderich had become gently accustomed to was not present. Instead, Gilbert Beilschmidt wore the most serious expression of which he was likely capable.

“Ivan,” He spoke softly, unwilling for other passers-by to eavesdrop, “never would have expected to see you here. Or ever again, for that matter.”

Roderich remained silent, shifting to see the brute of a man behind him. Indeed, he was stocky, scruffily-clothed, and if a height so tall it automatically demanded obedience. The stranger’s eyes were narrow, tinged with violet much like Roderich’s own, but partially concealed behind a nose he had probably inherited from Neanderthal parents. _Another wolf._

The man, Ivan, jerked a tick thumb towards a narrow alleyway leading out from the market. “Need to talk to you.”

Gilbert licked his chapped lips briefly, before moving to go with him. Roderich’s head snapped to him. “What is going on?”

Again, that humourless glance. “Can’t you see, Specs? I found an old friend.”

Gilbert had told Roderich to remain by the market, or, as he forebodingly worded it, ‘ _in the open_ ’. Roderich followed him anyway. Gilbert did not protest his accompaniment to any great extent, and they three were gathered in the alleyway, which was shaded, mouldy, and alarmingly deteriorated.

Ivan crossed his arms, planting his feet a distance from the pair. He is blocking the exit, Roderich noted in subtle dismay, brow furrowed.

Gilbert stepped before Roderich. “What do you want, Ivan?”

Ivan jutted his jaw with a scoff. “So rude. We need you to come back.”

“Why? I’m of no particular importance to you lot.”

“Agreed, but we need all the men we can get,” Ivan answered solemnly. “And you know too much to be wandering around freely.”

 

Gilbert tongued his cheek. “It is as if he were speaking to me in person,” He remarked. “It was _he_ who told you what to say, right? Reign me in?”

To this, Ivan gave no reaction. Roderich watched them interact, mesmerised and incredibly confused.

“I’m not harming anyone,” Gilbert continued.

“Still, you must return,” Ivan retorted, his thick accent warping his pronunciation most beautifully, “we are...preparing, again. He said that our troops must be rallied.”  
  


“Troops?” Gilbert repeated, “we were barely a circus. What is it, this occasion, if it requires many men?”

Ivan looked ready to answer, but his cold, cold eyes shifted to the younger man. “No specifics if he’s here.” Roderich’s cheeks began to burn as Gilbert glanced back at him, then to Ivan again.

“It’s that big, huh.”

Silence.

“You should go, Specs.”

Roderich was taken aback. “I am not leaving,” He declared with as stern a voice he could summon. “Whatever this man would say to you he will say before me, otherwise our business here is done.”

As soon as the sentence left his tongue, Roderich knew he had blundered. Ivan looked ready to pounce.

Stepping back, Roderich just missed the fist thrown at him by the Russian, Gilbert’s arm outstretched to deflect the blow. Gilbert gripped Ivan’s wrist, face inches from the other’s. “I want nothing to do with you lot, or with _him_ , any more. I’m done.”

“You know too much,” Ivan sneered, “he will send us after you again. That time, there will be no talking.”

Gilbert sighed. Roderich had not realised how close he was to the other man until he felt his body relax with the outlet of breath. Then, the Berliner reached up with his free hand, took off his top hat, and passed it into Roderich’s fingers. “Hold my hat.”

To Ivan, he whispered, “Very well. Please give him this from me.” And his arm rose, his fingers curled, and he hit him in the face.

Ivan reeled, grunting in pain, but not defeated. His shoulder glanced off the stonework, and Gilbert took his chance to move past him, Roderich in tow, narrowly escaping the Russian man’s grip as he reached for them.

Out onto the marketplace, Roderich was unconvinced that they were any safer.

“Go, _go_ ,” Gilbert urged, practically pushing him back along Mariahilferstraẞe.

“Wait - what -”

“Just move, I don’t know if there are any more around!” Turning left, they entered the street leading up to the Museum of Historical Art. They were again lost in a sea of people; only then did Gilbert seem to calm down.

He looked down at Roderich. The brunette asked nothing, and simply handed him his hat.

“That market was a tad too hectic for my liking, Herr Beilschmidt.”

Gilbert rubbed his knuckles gently. “Believe me, Herr Edelstein, that was nothing special.”

.

. 

.

* _Zeitgeist_  = spirit of the time. I.e. A sense that it is time for something to change.

 


	8. Chapter 7

A/N: I had aimed to post this chapter earlier, but regardless, I wish everyone happy holidays and hope you are all enjoying the story.

* * *

Roderich was struggling to process what had just happened. It did not compute, at least not without the urge to ask thousands of questions. He had never before found himself in the position of desiring to interrogate someone, but then again, it appeared that he was overcoming many first-times with this Berliner. 

He regretted his earlier desire to discover more about Gilbert Beilschmidt. If his exposition involved Russian thugs and conspiracies, Roderich wanted to be affiliated with none of it. With every passing second, however, the temptation of opening his mouth grew ever stronger. After what had likely been only a few minutes of internal monologue, Roderich spoke up, well aware that they were not alone on this pavement.

"Are you going to explain what the devil just happened?"

Gilbert's reply was instant. "No."

"Despite the fact that I was almost assaulted?"

"Despite that, yeah. And you're welcome."

Sinking disappointment rested heavily in the pit of the Austrian's stomach; yes, he did not want to be _involved_ with whatever world Gilbert was in, but that by no means meant that he was not _interested_ by it.

They passed some more stalls, a couple of shops, another café. There was an alcove in the wall of the street, which marked the entrance to another lane. A young lad rested in that alcove, covered by moth-eaten blankets, barely clothed. His shoes, Roderich saw, had frost on them after another cold February night. The boy's face was smeared with dirt, to such an extent that his features were barely distinguishable. He was holding up his upturned cap in one trembling hand, trying to catch the attention of the wealthy as they sauntered by.

His wide, dark eyes looked into Roderich's. "Change, Mister?" Even his voice was wracked by the low temperature. Roderich froze. He was not used to being confronted with, well, abject poverty. Or any poverty at all. He just stood there, being jostled by others, staring with the expression of a goldfish.

Gilbert moved them out of the current of the crowd, and crouched before the boy, who shrunk back in fear.

"Do you have anywhere you should be?" He asked, with the tone of one trying to comfort a cornered animal. The lad shook his head, shuffled back a bit further into the alcove. Roderich then noted with alarm that the boy's right leg was missing below the knee. It was poorly dressed in bandages.

Gilbert pulled out what was no doubt some of his savings from the Academy. He handed a few notes to the boy, who looked on in disbelief. "Some Kronen," He stated. "There is an inn close by: do you know of it?"

Still stupefied, the boy managed a nod.

"Good. This isn't much, but it should buy you a couple of nights there." Shaking himself of his stupor, the lad wrenched himself to his foot, an old cane under his right arm, clutching the notes close to his heart under the cap. Gilbert stood as well.

"Th-thank you," The lad mumbled, before exclaiming, "thank you so much, sir!" But Gilbert simply nodded, without even a smile, and watched the boy as he limped off down the quiet lane in search of the inn.

Roderich closed his jaw, which he had failed to notice had been hanging open. This man walking beside him was most certainly full of surprises.

"Right," Gilbert started, "let's get to the Museum."

.

.

.

Never in Roderich's life had he witnessed such cultural beauty as that exhibited in the Museum of Historical Art. As soon as he entered the grand lobby, the breath was ripped from his lungs. Suddenly, he wondered why he and his family had not ventured to come here before.

Gilbert stood by his shoulder, unusually silent. But then again, Roderich reasoned, such an image as this would naturally halt even the most lively of tongues.

A domed entry hall was structured by several tall archways, each with two dark marble pillars. Intricate designs reminiscent of Aztec symbols were printed onto the smooth floor and reflected on stone in the high ceiling. Staircases waited behind each archway, no doubt leading to ever-more astonishing displays of beauty.

There was a steady stream of visitors, so both men were forced from their appreciative trance - not that they were the only ones enraptured by the initial sight - and after paying a small entrance fee, they ascended the grand staircase.

Roderich's cheeks began to burn; he felt shameful leaving so much as a speck of dirt upon the polished white steps. At the top of the staircase, two Greek statues either side of the banisters, and one in the centre of the landing. The mass of newcomers spread themselves out, heading to various parts of the Museum. Roderich scrutinised the statue. A heavily muscled man looked to be attacking some kind of beast.

Gilbert, finally, spoke up, arms folded expertly at the small of his back. "Theseus slaying the centaur," He declared, ruby eyes glancing over the statue.

"Oh? What do you know of it?"

Gilbert looked down, if only for a second, seemingly unsure whether or not to continue. He gestured slightly to the man brandishing a club.

"Uh, well… he's Theseus, son of Aegeus, who was the King of Athens. He was invited to the wedding of his friend, Pirithoüs, and the goddess Hippodamia. Centaurs were also welcomed to the celebration - this guy, here -" Gilbert's pale finger led Roderich's gaze to the man-horse hybrid cowering under Theseus, "- he's a Centaur. Ah, the Centaurs were unruly and caused nothing but trouble. One of 'em must've been _really_ hammered, and suggested that they attempt to kidnap the blushing bride. Theseus intervened with the kidnapping and taught the Centaurs a lesson. Talk about stealing the thunder!" His chuckle was soft, tinted with an emotion which Roderich could not identify.

"Yes. Thankfully he was not in attendance at Thor's wedding," The Austrian mumbled, intending to explore the building further, but Gilbert gently nudged him. "Was that an actual _joke_ , Specs? Are you warming to the idea of camaraderie?" He laughed again, louder this time, and for the first time, despite the inevitable looks of derision from other spectators, Roderich did not mind the intrusive noise.

"Are you implying that I had no sense of humour?"

"No! Yes. But in my defence the opinion is well-justified. The only time you have smiled has been when insulting me, I have noticed."

Unwilling to respond to the observation, Roderich simply turned and made for the art gallery, following the directions and admiring the corridors, all of which were adorned with simple yet elegant ornaments and soothing tones. There were statues at every corner, large and small, of differing materials, all curling their bodies around the building's interior, splaying themselves onto the walls. Roderich was bewildered by how _human_ they appeared. The figures were often plump, and wrinkled, and imperfect. However, if his art course had taught him anything so far, it was that imperfection could be beautiful.

By the time they had reached the central gallery, many of the tour groups had already been ushered through. Now, only a handful of visitors paced the collections with the expressions of experienced critics.

The artworks themselves were, of course, extraordinary. Indeed, Roderich's own work paled in comparison to these classic masterpieces, all of which had stood the test of time remarkably well.

Moving to the nearest painting on display, the brunette surveyed the scene: a Roman soldier, central, atop two fallen men, an angel to his right and a maiden his left. The angel presented him a crown, which, by his noble expression, he believed he deserved.

"'The Triumph of the Victory," Gilbert chimed. Again, Roderich's brow furrowed.

"Peter Paul Rubens. 1614, or thereabouts. Hercules looks pretty pleased with himself, don't you think?"

They passed another painting.

"I haven't seen this one in a while! Hugo van der Goes."

Looking at the two specimens in the painting, it was evident to Roderich who they were. "Adam and Eve."

Gilbert nodded. "He painted it in about...1460. No, 1470. Oh hey, look at this one…" He strolled off once more, drawn into the world of pastel colours, oils, chalks and frames. Watching him peruse each work, eyes flitting gently to every painted face, Roderich was reminded of a child roaming a sweet shop. They continued on their course around the Museum, and as they did so, Gilbert's apparently childlike state only increased with every excited gesture he made, or every whine directed at Roderich because ' _you're not paying attention!'_.

"I am," Roderich assured the older, "but I am quite confuddled." Both men stopped in the pillared corridor, in which they were currently the only wanderers.

Gilbert glanced again at the piece he had been in the middle of describing. "I can go through it again if -"

"Not that. I want to know why you know so much about the arts."

The albino's expression suddenly dropped into one of apprehension. A rare feeling of power surged through Roderich as he realised that now was an ideal time for interrogation. "There has been scarcely a piece in these rooms about which you were ignorant. Statues, paintings, even the style of architecture! For goodness' sake, you even started to inform me of this building's history."

Silence. Gilbert, who had previously been chewing his lip, opened his mouth. "Well to be fair this place has had a difficult past. In 1809 a lot of the collections in Vienna were stolen by Napoleon's troops -"

"Gilbert!"

"- had to be replaced with donations from the House of Habsburg. It's actually quite interesting because this Museum was erected in 1891 so -"

Grabbing his collar, Roderich let the anger swell inside his chest. _This man shall play no more games with me!_ "I have been restraining myself since we left the market-"

Gilbert smiled wryly under the brim of his hat. "I'm flattered -"

"-but now I am going to ask you questions and you will answer them if you know what is good for you. Now, who was the Russian man at the market?"

Gilbert's eyes flicked to one of the pillars close by. His jaw tightened. "Roderich -"  
But the latter was becoming relentless. "Who was he? Why did he ask for your help? Just what are you involved with -"

There was rapid movement; something lunged from behind one of the pillars, a black blur, and Gilbert was twisting from the Austrian's grip, and he threw a punch, missed, a grunt, Roderich was pushed roughly, then hauled away from the blurred figure of Gilbert.

When the world was still again, Roderich realised that his back was against another body, a foreign body, and his arm was being clamped painfully behind his back. 

There was a blade at his throat. Roderich's pulse moved at a lightening-fast gait, his veins popping from his skin. The warm metal dug into his jugular, tilting his head up, and all he could think was _please spare me_ in a litany of panic.

He could just about see Gilbert, leaning on a nearby banister for support. His nose was bloody and his glare piercing, focused on Roderich's captor.

"Asshole," Spat the Berliner, staggering to his feet. "You move fast. One of his disciples, I take it."  
"You must return." This man was Austrian; Roderich was thankful that at least the Russian had not decided to hunt them.

Gilbert shook his head in reply.

"I'll kill this one if you do not swear to return."

The Berliner licked his lips. "...Fine. I swear to return. Now let him go."

But the captor attuned to the shallow cadence of his voice, and suddenly the blade was pressed harder into Roderich's throat. He couldn't help it; he let out a choked sound.

He heard Gilbert curse.

"You owe him!" The stranger continued. "Just go back. You are no aristocrat; why flounce around dressed as one? This guy here will likely be killed anyway, no outsiders. He's heard too much."

"Then stop runnin' your mouth."

Another strain on Roderich's throat; another pathetic whimper. He wanted to fight back, but he hadn't the faintest idea how, and he could not afford any rash movements in his current position. A desperate thought reached his mind. _Gilbert, help me!_ He wished that he could project it into the other man's head.

"I'm going to count to three," Said the attacker. "If, by three, you have not earnestly agreed to return with me, I shall kill him. And then I shall kill you."

If the body mass were anything to judge by, Roderich reckoned that this man was not as muscled as the Russian, but still relatively lean. _It would only take one second. One fell slash and I will be done. Oh God, Gilbert, do not leave me to die._

Roderich could no longer see Gilbert, but he heard the unmistakable sigh.

"One."

Silence, save for breathing. Roderich's throat ached. His mouth was dry, his hands cold with fear. The man had his free hand in Roderich's hair, craning his neck back by force.

"Two."

_Beilschmidt!_

Footsteps. Suddenly, he glimpsed Gilbert's top hat falling to the floor; the attacker's attention was diverted, and Gilbert moved in, outstretched hand grabbing that of the attacker, wrenching it, the knife fell and Gilbert caught it, using the forearm as a block. Taking a knee to the gut, Gilbert pushed Roderich aside with commendable strength; the stranger's other hand went for Gilbert's throat but he dodged, sprang up again, the knife handle being held backwards so that all he had to do was slash upwards and -

"Aaagh!" The man wailed as blood spurted from his chest; Gilbert gave him no time for retaliation, dropping the blade and pushing him back, both hands on his shoulders, back to the low banister -

"Gilbert, no!"

With a snarl, Gilbert Beilschmidt shoved the stranger over the edge - but he did not let him go. Instead, he held onto him by the lapels of his jacket. The wounded man struggled, but Gilbert pinned him with a glare. "Don't try anything. I can push you off before you could even blink. But I don't do that any more. So here's the deal: you're gonna be the messenger. You go back there and tell him to shove it, or I'll make sure the authorities know everything."

Even now, the stranger laughed. "You wouldn't _dare_ -"

Gilbert pressed onto the man's injury. "I'll sing like a canary. Now fuck off." He threw him to the side, scouting the premises for accomplices. Though, Roderich decided, if there had been more, they would have also attacked. His pulse still raced.

Shocked, bleeding, humiliated, the stranger made his getaway.

Gilbert had his back to Roderich. Slowly, he went over and collected the knife, which he pocketed, and the hat, which he placed upon his mess of white hair. Knowing that the Berliner was armed, it compelled Roderich to see him in a new light. A terrifying light.

_This man is a killer_.

He stood there, away from the elder, whose face was fractured by crimson stains. The blood dripped onto the floor. _Drip. Drip. Drip._

It seemed like an eternity before he did speak. It was with the softest tone. "If I were to answer your questions," He began, "it would endanger you. Potentially others, as well."

Roderich glowered at him. "I'm not bloody safe as it is, Gilbert! Just tell me." He took a tentative step closer. "You're not just a thief, are you?"

Gilbert's eyes met his. He looked hurt. "No one aspires to be a thief."

Adjusting his glasses, Roderich's pulse began to stumble. Tiredness wrapped its dampening tendrils around his muscles. He felt so exhausted. He went to take another step, but his knee buckled; Gilbert rushed forward, an arm around Roderich's waist to hold him up. "Come on, you need to rest."

Gingerly, the Austrian removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it into Gilbert's pale, blood-smeared palm. "Wipe your nose. It is unsightly." Chuckling softly, the Berliner dabbed the scarlet trails from his lips and chin.

They moved towards the Museum exit, having spent a few moments recovering.

.

.

.

**The Vienna Academy of Fine Arts** _**.** _

When they arrived back, it was almost sunset. Luckily, after they had changed clothes, they made it to dinner. Roderich sat at the table with the rest of the art students. The food was not only delicious, but well-prepared. He savoured every mouthful.

"You look tired, Edelstein," Elizaveta commented, giving him a disarming smile. He did his best to return it. "I...I am. I have had a long day, and I must begin my second piece tomorrow."

"I wish you well."

The words took him by surprise. "Th-thank you." His confusion must have shown, because the Hungarian giggled. "I can be a nice person, you know. Let's be friends. After all, if I can learn to tolerate Beilschmidt, you won't be any problem."

Roderich glanced across the table, where Gilbert sat eating his dinner sombrely. "Yes," Roderich faced her, and met her green gaze, "let's be friends."

 

He had no stomach for pudding that night. Every time he had swallowed, his throat had throbbed in memory of the harrowing attempt on his life. Roderich made attempts to socialise, but admittedly had had to make his excuses and leave for his dorm room. He was quite convinced that he would gain no sleep tonight.

As he ascended the stairs, he released a frustrated growl when he heard a second set of steps behind his own. _There is only one person that could be._

"I am tired, Gilbert. Leave me in peace." A hand grabbed his sleeve. "Wait, Roderich."

Roderich shook him off and continued on to the dorm. He was stopped again outside his door. "What _is_ it, Gilbert?" He snapped. Gilbert swallowed. "I...I think I can answer one question. But only one." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, you wanted to know...why I know so much about the museum pieces."

Curious, the brunette gave a curt nod.

Shoulders drooping in defeat, the older man shifted his gaze as he elaborated. "The reason that I know so much about the arts is...that I was raised in a cultured family."

"What…?"

"I was taught all about relics and myths and artwork. I am from a Junker* family, Roderich."

.

.

.

"That doesn't make sense," Roderich breathed, backing up to the door.

"My family is the Beilschmidt family of Schönhausen Palace in southern Berlin. I was surprised that you didn't recognise the surname, actually, with you being part of the inner circle. I guess we're only known in Germany."

"You were on the street," Roderich continued. "Dressed in rags. Wandering around cafés looking for noblemen to pickpocket."

"When I left Germany, I wasn't a thief. I was the heir to the Beilschmidt name." Still struggling to compute this unexpected information, the brunette placed a hand to his mouth. He forced himself to meet Gilbert's eyes. "Then why did you leave?"

 

Gilbert's eyes were chillingly emotionless. "I never liked labels."

 

"...And the men who found us today?" The white-haired man refused the prompt, looking down. "They don't matter."

"They threatened to kill us -"

"I can take 'em." He let out a firm breath. "They probably know where I am." Roderich narrowed his violet eyes. "And by extension, where I am." Gilbert only shrugged. "I warned them away. If they come here, I'll just have to leave."

Roderich had been skirting the issue, but now he felt he had worked out the truth. _It is the only plausible inference. Men chasing after him, ordering him to return, all of this secretive business…._ "You were in a cult, were you not?"

At this, Gilbert's eyes widened; he held his hands up in defence. "N-no! Not a cult. I really do not want to discuss this." But Roderich pressed on, certain that he would not be interrupted by another attacker. "A gang, than? Or a mob? You seem to detest everything under the law so maybe it was a vigilante group -"

Now, Gilbert shrank back. "That's not -"

"Then _what_?" Roderich blurted, flushed and irritated. An idea formed, a razor-edged jigsaw puzzle, and he wielded it as a weapon. "If you do not tell me everything in which you are involved, Gilbert Beilschmidt, I shall see to it that your parents are contacted and I am confident they will drag you back to Germany kicking and screaming."

The older man's gaze darkened. "You're making threats. That's adorable. You, a piglet whose life is controlled by his parents. Is that your plan, Princess? Tell mother and father to contact my own? Let me tell you something: the moment I left the palace I was disowned. My father would not bat an eyelid if he knew what I'd been up to, so by all means, inform them, but it will gain you no further information." The gravel in his voice belied the arrogance in his eyes. Roderich once again felt penalised for trying to use his parents' influence as leverage. _Of course his attitude towards everything is egalitarian. He has no one but himself._

Gilbert had advanced during his little speech, hands either side of the Austrian's form, trapping him against the door. "Do you really need to know?" He whispered against Roderich's cheek. "Don't you know what curiosity did to the cat?"

Roderich was bothered, and weak. He wanted nothing more than to lie down. But the overwhelming urge to possess this answer overrode the remaining fatigue. He lifted his jaw, challenging the older male. "I do. Besides, one attempt has already been made upon my life. I deserve an answer in compensation."

A silver eyebrow rose. Pale lips turned up into a cocky sneer.

 

"Terrorist."

 

Roderich had pushed the key into the lock. He opened the door quickly, putting distance between himself and this white-haired mystery. _I never knew him at all._

Gilbert followed Roderich into the room before he could slam the door. "But, I don't do that any more."

"A terrorist!" Roderich whispered, infuriated. "Why on Earth would you become a terrorist?"

To this, Gilbert provided no answer. There was little light in the room as the sun had long since given way to a pale navy sky; his face was heavily shadowed, except for those unusual eyes. Roderich shook his head in disbelief. "You are dangerous…." He murmured. "A terrorist…." His brow hardened behind his spectacles. "I'll have you thrown out of here. Everyone will know what you are!" He made for the entryway, but Gilbert stepped into his way. His face was marred by a domineering snarl.

"You aren't going anywhere. Tell no one."

"The central committee of this Academy will be told. Why would I condone the presence of a _terrorist_ , in a place well-suited to the position of a target?"

Gilbert then seemed to adopt the mood of a wounded animal, the threatening tone leaving his voice. "I thought. I thought that we had become friends." The Austrian was taken aback. Friends? It was indeed possible that they had gotten to know each other slightly since their first encounter, but had they ever really gotten along?

A new wave of uncertainty washed over his skin. "We were acquaintances," He stated, "but friends we are not." _Now most certainly._

Sadness was apparent on Gilbert's features, but it was soon replaced with desperation. "It was pure coincidence that you happened to offer me lodging in the Academy. It is no target and I am an ex-terrorist."

"The money you make working here would be nothing compared to the spoils of a planned heist," Roderich countered, keeping his voice low lest a passer-by hear them. The last thing he wanted was to cause unnecessary panic, but when it came to terrorists, he supposed, panic was justifiable. Terrorists killed people. Terrorists destroyed buildings and uprooted civilisation and fractured the lives of innocents.

Gilbert was shaking his head in denial. "No, Roderich, there is no heist."

"Then why are there terrorists after you, seeking your assistance?"

"I don't bloody know, there must be some kind of operation in progress!" The Berliner threw his arms up in frustration. "Look, I left them, alright? I left and they -" His eyes glinted with realisation. "They must have tracked me to Vienna."

Roderich folded his arms, allowing his emotions to simmer down in order to focus on what Gilbert had said. _Can I trust anything that this man says?_ "How vital are you to their operation," He began, "if they are willing to hunt you down to attain your help?"

"I - I'm not vital. Not really. No, this doesn't make sense," Gilbert growled, muttering to himself. "Ivan just said that they need many men...they could not have been searching only for me. if that's the case, then, perhaps…"

"What, man?" Roderich exclaimed.

Gilbert looked at him, wary. "They are likely tracking someone. Someone very important. Someone who's Diamond Jubilee will be celebrated soon, here in Vienna."

 

The Austrian's gasp lodged in his throat. "They want the Emperor?"

The German gave a sharp nod. "More than that," He amended, "they probably want him dead."

.

.

.

A/N: Ah, sweet exposition! More will of course be explained in the coming chapters.

Junker* is Prussian nobility.


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: Prepare for a history lesson. 

* * *

 

Both men had not spoken in a week.

For that, Roderich was grateful. His nerves and his mind could take no more shattering revelations, not at the moment. 

He had thrown himself into his artwork, grateful for the escape and tranquility that it brought him. He had also been spending more time with Elizaveta; they often painted together, sharing a companionable silence as they worked on their individual pieces. It was rare that they exchanged lengthy conversations, but when they did, Roderich never found it tiresome as was his usual attitude to social convention. 

However, the issue of Gilbert always lingered in the back of Roderich’s mind: a virus, slowly infecting his brain and concentration. Even now, as he sketched his design onto the canvas paper, he had to forcibly block out the image of the Berliner’s face as he had whispered, “ _terrorist_ ”. 

His pencil stilled; he sighed. 

Nearby, he heard Elizaveta’s voice. “Are you alright?” The question vexed him. He merely breathed out, so what had prompted her to ask?

Turning to face her, the Austrian nodded once. “I am well. Do I not appear so?”

 

“No, you seem - fine. But that is the fifth time you have paused and sighed in the last half hour. Even for a budding artist, that is a lot of contemplation,” She smiled softly. “Which leads me to the conclusion that something is distracting you.”

 

“Insightful.”

“Mm. Well, I  _ am _ a woman. For all we are taught to hide our emotions, we certainly do learn to recognise those of others quite clearly.” She placed her paintbrush on the easel and wiped her paint-splattered hands on her apron briefly. “Are you unsatisfied with your work so far?” She glanced over his art foundations. “Not bad.”

Roderich raised an eyebrow. “As per the attitude of an artist, yes. Admittedly the problem at hand is rather more significant.” 

“Oh? Family issues?”

He blinked, surprised by the estimate.  _ Why on Earth would she jump to the conclusion that my family gives me cause for concern? _ “No.”  Roderich had been exchanging letters with his parents every couple of weeks since his arrival. The postal service, he had been gruntled to discover, was incredibly efficient in Vienna. Neither he nor his parents appeared to have anything particularly interesting to document; the most he could consistently write was that ‘ _ I completed another additional art piece today _ ’ because strangely enough that was the most one could do when one attended an arts academy. According to his parents, the most that had happened was that one of the maids at the Manor had had to resign due to pregnancy. 

Of course, many a time had he contemplated telling his parents about Gilbert, about who he was and, more importantly, with whom he was involved. Yet each time, he thought back to Gilbert’s patronising words. If he told his parents, then he would be the very same spoiled, dependent, powerless young man that Gilbert had suggested he were. 

This was to be a battle he would have to win alone. 

 

Roderich shook his head to clear the thoughts. “It is nothing.”  
.

.

.

Naturally, for his identity piece, he had chosen to draw the grand piano. It was simple, black and white; a vessel for music. 

It was him. 

He sat patiently upon the stage, sketchbook in hand, resting against his knee for support. Today he had decided to focus on drawing the keys of the piano - another shading exercise if nothing else. It was early afternoon and he only had another 20 minutes; according to the class schedule, this room would be occupied soon.

Roderich listened to the sound of his graphite pencil grate colour onto the paper. Keys were unusually difficult to draw, mainly due to the reflections and angles. Once he had gotten a decent grasp on how the process of creating artwork was done, (finding inspiration, sketching several designs of said inspiration, then choosing an ideal design before perfecting and finalising it) Roderich was able to simply wile the hours away. It was an opportunity to establish a personal universe. 

 

The door to the room opened. 

Turning around, the Austrian found himself faced with Professor Kierwald once again. He felt his universe fracture and implode.  _ Fantastic.  _ “Professor Kierwald,” He began, returning to his shading, “how nice to see you.” He hoped that the ice in his voice was not too conspicuous.

Evidently not, as Kierwald halted just before the raised stage. “You are fond of this piano,” He stated. “We do have others.”

“...Is this a veiled request for me to leave, sir?” At this, Kierwald’s gaze raced down to meet Roderich’s. “Not at all; I merely wondered what drew you to this one in particular.”

“Well, it…”  _ It was the one Gilbert found, and I am inexplicably drawn to him, too.  _ “It reminds me of the one I have in my chambers at home.”

Kierwald’s eyebrows shot up. “A piano in your chambers? My, how lucky you are. “ He offered a smile, but it bore no friendliness. Roderich grew more uncomfortable in his presence with every passing second. He began to gather his equipment, standing ungracefully. “Y- yes. I realise that this room is booked for the next hour,” he gestured to the clock, despite the time clearly stating that he had another ten minutes. “I must be off.”

The professor stepped in front of him. “One moment, please. I wish to ask you something.”  Roderich forced himself to keep calm, which was significantly easier to do, given that he had of late been in worse situations.

“Of course. What is it, Professor?”

 

Kierwald tightened his jaw. “How well do you know Herrn Beilschmidt?”

The question caught him unexpectedly; Roderich faltered through an answer. “B-Beilschmidt? Ah, he is a recently hired caretaker here, is he not? I have only spoken with him a few times; really I know nothing about him.”   Professor Kierwald blinked, and the younger man could tell that he was unconvinced. 

“Is that so.” Kierwald folded his hands before his abdomen, his dark robes pleating neatly. “Only, from what I hear, you both have been spending much time together.”

Now, it was Roderich’s turn to be sceptical. “From whom did you receive such twaddle? Who exactly sources the gossip of this Academy?” Kierwald exhaled slowly, the bags under his eyes seeming to deepen. “It would be unwise to commit perjury, Herr Edelstein. Just last week, both yourself and Herr Beilschmidt entered Academy grounds in late evening, and both of you appeared rather dishevelled. What, pray tell, was the occasion?”

Holding his sketchbook close to his chest as if it were a shield, Roderich swallowed.  _ Here is my chance to confess. I could tell him about Gilbert, and ensure that he is dealt with by the police. I could land him in jail, or worse.  _ The power was completely with him. If he exposed Gilbert now, he would win; he would use his own influence to punish him without his parents’ assistance.

Except that he could not confess the truth. His tongue would not form the words which he knew should be spoken. Because Roderich knew that exposing Gilbert would not just warrant a jail sentence; if Gilbert really was - or had been - a terrorist, then regardless of his supposed Junker heritage, he would be hung for high treason. Most likely, he would also be tortured beforehand in order for him to name his accomplices.

Roderich relished knowing that he could, at this moment, sign Gilbert’s death warrant if he so wished, but he knew that he would not survive being responsible for someone’s death. The guilt would haunt him forever, even if the victim had been a terrorist.

Right now the Austrian began to resent the Berliner, for Gilbert could afford to be ignorant of how his actions may affect Roderich, but the reverse was most certainly not the case.

And so, Roderich Edelstein continued to lie. “I bumped into him whilst exploring Vienna. It appeared that he had fallen victim to a mugging, therefore I saw fit to bring him back to the Academy.”

“I see.” Kierwald finally appeared to relax. “It appears you are a very generous person. Good day, Herr Edelstein.”

The brunette had already reached the double doors, anxious to leave. “Good day, Professor.”

.

.

.

It was only after he had shut his dorm room behind him, that Roderich felt a sweeping wave of unease which made him hesitate. His brows furrowed.

Nobody had seen him and Gilbert enter the Academy that evening; all had been in their respective lessons. Even the receptionists had not been present. He remembered that clearly because he had been relieved for no one to see them in such a state.  Neither Roderich nor Gilbert had told anyone about what happened that day. At least, Roderich assumed that Gilbert had remained silent, particularly as he now knew there were people after him. 

There would have been no way for Professor Kierwald to obtain that information, not unless... 

Letting out a gasp, Roderich abandoned his things on his bed, racing out of his room. He passed other Academy-attendees, and peered into every classroom he saw, hoping to glimpse the albino. 

He had no such luck, and was beginning to panic, when he eventually recognised a white head of hair down one of the hallways. Gilbert was aiding some other caretakers to move large paintings.  Adjusting his spectacles, Roderich tidied his dandy shirt before approaching the older man, who was presently carrying one end of a massive watercolour piece. “Gilbert, I need to talk to you.”

Noting the glances from the other assistants, Gilbert raised one eyebrow as they transported the artwork. “Now, you want to speak to me now?” ‘ _ After one week of silence _ ?’ Roderich could see the subtle incredulity of the question. “Yes - Professor Bonnefoy asked me to remind you that he requested you as a model for the still-life drawing class today.” At this comment, some of the other men shared suspecting looks. Apparently Bonnefoy had a reputation for focusing on male models, which, given what Roderich had witnessed of the man’s behaviour, was unsurprising.

Roderich followed the men as they carried several paintings into an Academy storage room. The paintings were stored appropriately, before Gilbert left with the Austrian.

“That better have been a bluff,” He commented idly, “I don’t feel like stripping for a class today. I’m bloated.”

Tugging on his sleeve, Roderich pulled him into an empty room, shutting the door firmly. “I just spoke to Professor Kierwald.”

“The condescending music teacher? God, I can’t stand that man.”

“Yes, him. Have you spoken to him this week, at all?” Gilbert shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe, once, about how to store music stands or something. Why?”

Roderich gave him a meaningful look. “But you have not mentioned anything to him about that day last week, correct?” Now Gilbert seemed wary. “No; why would I? And why are you so talkative all of a sudden?”

“Because Kierwald knows that we came back to the Academy late that day in a mess. He just questioned me about whether or not I know you well. He could not have seen us, there was no one around - and -”

“Hang on, he might have glimpsed us from a window or something.”   


“Really? During a lesson? Must you be in denial?”  It took Gilbert a few seconds to work out Roderich’s deduction, arms folded. “You think he’s a spy?”

Roderich sighed exasperatedly. “I do not know, but how else could he know what we looked like when we returned if he did not have other sources of information? I understand this is rather far-fetched, but… I mean, he asked me why we appeared dishevelled and -”

Gilbert’s head snapped up. “And what did you say?” There was a burst of apprehension in his ruby eyes. Again, Roderich enjoyed this position of power. He met his eyes. “I told him nothing important. I lied. He seemed to believe me but -”

Warm arms embraced him. Roderich’s chin suddenly met Gilbert’s shoulder, his arms trapped awkwardly between their chests as he was hugged. 

Gilbert’s voice was soft. “Thank you.” 

Roderich felt compelled to demand what for, but he already knew why. Whether or not he liked it, he had decided to protect Gilbert Beilschmidt, terrorist or not.

Almost imperceptibly, his arms loosely flanked Gilbert’s sides.

.

.

.

“Can you please reach a water jar for me?” 

Smirking, Elizaveta stood on her tiptoes and brought down an empty jam jar from the shelf. She handed it to Roderich, who was trying his hardest not to blush. “Perhaps you should ask Beilschmidt for a stepladder.” 

The Austrian’s cheeks went crimson. “Thank you. And that will not be necessary.” Another student passed them: a blonde Pole called Felix. “Why, are you still awaiting a growth spurt?”

“Hilarious.” Roderich stomped to the sink to fill the jar with water.  

Elizaveta and Felix watched on, amused. “He cannot take a joke, can he?” Felix whispered. The Hungarian scoffed and whispered back, “His pride is too delicate. He and Beilschmidt could be twins, they are so similar.”

“Beilschmidt...is he that guy who tried to burn down this Academy?”

“No. No, that was Roderich. By accident, of course. Although you could say that they are-” 

“Argh!” Roderich recoiled as the tap spewed water all over him; the jar dropped to the floor and smashed loudly.

“- partners in crime,” She finished. Felix burst out laughing, accompanied by the chuckles of a few others. A few students rushed over to help clear up the mess; Roderich, his shirt soaking and his dignity bruised, swiftly removed his spectacles before breezing out of the room.

“Roderich!” Elizaveta scolded as she followed him, “Do not make others have to clear up the mess  _ you _ made.”

“I did not make it; the tap is faulty!” He snapped, producing a tissue from his sleeve which he used to dry his face. 

“You smashed the jar.”   
“No, I dropped it, it was simply an accident -”

“Must you constantly avoid responsibility? It is pathetic.” Her last word stung him. The hot, bitter feeling of humiliation crept up his spine once more, but he did not turn to face her, instead accelerating his pace out into the corridor. He would need to change clothes before he developed hypothermia; seeing as he had always been prone to contracting ailments quickly, he by no means wished to tempt them. 

Elizaveta’s steps slowed. “Wait, Roderich - I’m sorry.”

Roderich had reached the stairs, and only now did he glance back at her. “It was an accident,” He reiterated. 

.

.

.

Roderich had always been taught by his father that professionalism was the most important social skill one could possess. Herr Edelstein, who had made his fortunes via the close trading market that Austria had with Germany, was well within his rights to preach such a statement. After all, it was diplomacy and co-operation which ensured the laws under which supplies were imported and exported, was it not? One could hardly sign a business deal after first behaving like a spoilt child. Therefore, Roderich had always attempted to approach any situation that faced him with objective professionalism.

The difficult part was maintaining said professionalism.

He had heard something. 

Passing by the men’s bathroom, he had heard something. Taking a few paces back, he stopped directly outside the main door. 

There were moans and gasps emanating from within that room - muffled, as if slightly restrained, but most definitely sounds of a sexual nature. 

Roderich blinked, his fingers tightening around his wireframes. The last time he had eavesdropped he had heard much the same  - the shadowy image of Bonnefoy and Williams briefly entered his head - but this time it sounded like a woman and a man. 

He remained there, alone, wondering why he was allowing himself to once again witness this lewd behaviour. It should really have surprised him that there was so much indecent activity happening at the Academy, but apparently he was becoming somewhat desensitised to it now, as his only reaction was an eye-roll. The sounds suddenly grew louder, and harsher, both husked voices reaching a mutual crescendo, before the interior fell silent. 

The brunette heard a distinctly feminine giggle, and the rustling of clothing, and before he realised that he should be making a hasty retreat the door opened. 

The scent of body odour caused his nose to wrinkle, and his eyes met those of a hastily-dressed young woman. Neither spoke. He noticed that her short bob was adorned with a skewiff yellow ribbon, and that her breasts were embarrassingly visible. She in turn probably noticed his current wet attire. Immediately he averted his eyes; he heard her give a high-pitched “ _ oh my lord _ ” before scarpering. Roderich felt the urge to shout an apology, but he decided that it would perhaps be the incorrect course of action.

There: professionalism.  

The bathroom door was still open, though, and unfortunately Roderich could see who stood inside, combing his tousled hair through with pale, long fingers. The other man finally saw him, and smiled. “Oh, hey, Specs.”

Roderich felt as if his stomach had fallen to the floor. He recalled why it became so difficult to keep composure around Gilbert Beilschmidt, and every ounce of his professionalism floated away. “What the devil were you doing?” He hissed, daring to step towards Gilbert, who, presently, was tightening the drawstrings of his shirt collar. “Uh, I think you mean  _ who _ .”   
“This is an Academy of Fine Arts, not a brothel!” 

Gilbert’s jaw dropped. “Wh - that is offensive to her! I can’t blame her for wanting sex with me and you shouldn’t, either!”

Unable to understand the statement, Roderich simply placed his hands upon his hips. “Who proceeds to risk their job for one sexual encounter?”

Gilbert pressed his lips together momentarily in disbelief. “ _ Everyone _ ,” He supplied. “And it’s  _ encounters _ ; there’s a few more where she came from.”

“They paid you handsomely, then.” At this, the Berliner barked a laugh. “See, I get that you have something against hookers and gigolos, but honestly, most of them are nice people. That, a few minutes ago, was just a fling.”

“Do you even know her name?”

The older man paused to think. “Um...Bethany - no, Bella - or...Something beginning with a ‘B’. She was one of the students in the still-life drawing classes and evidently she liked what she saw. My five meters can seduce anyone.” He wiggled a silver eyebrow. 

Roderich gave him a withering look. 

“You’re wet.” 

“Ex- excuse me?” The Austrian stuttered, much to the older’s amusement. “Your clothes,” He specified.

“A- ah. A tap broke. This Academy’s plumbing detests me.” 

“I know how it feels.” 

Roderich ignored the jibe. “Should you not be on your way? Apparently people are spying on us, now. If that is indeed the case, then I pity that half-naked woman who just fled from here.”

“Aw, you’re just flustered because it’s your first time seeing a pair or tits,” Satisfied with his state of dress, moved towards the doorway.  “Do not say such things.” Roderich was beginning to shiver under his thin, damp shirt. Gilbert stopped at his shoulder. “You need to get laid, Specs.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sex. You need sex.”

“No, I need dry clothes.” Gilbert’s body was close to his own; Roderich could feel the warmth from it. Hell, he could practically sense the adrenaline and testosterone circulating Gilbert’s system.  A hand landed on the shorter man’s shoulder, causing him to jump. “You really are tense, Priss.”

“Edelstein,” The Austrian corrected. “And it is because I am cold. Saying that, these couple of weeks have held many a stressful experience, so tension is inevitable.”

Gilbert’s smirking face was inches from Roderich’s own. “Sure. It relieves stress, you know.”

“The cold?”

Ruby irises darted downwards before meeting the brunette’s gaze again. “No, not the cold.”

 

“Hello?” A new voice turned both their heads; Diedrich stood before them, head tilted in confusion. 

Much to Roderich’s relief, Gilbert stepped back, throwing the newcomer a brilliant grin. “Hey.”

“Diedrich,” Roderich began, “Gilbert and I were just…”  _ Damn,  _ he thought as his mind went blank,  _ why must I be incapable of lying right now, of all times! _

“...discussing how bad this building’s pipes are,” Gilbert finished casually. “There must be too much pressure in them; there are leaks everywhere. One of these taps just broke, actually. Better report it to the head committee.” He strode out of the room. 

Diedrich let him pass, but to Roderich he seemed oddly uncertain.“So, which tap was it?” The taller man asked.

“I - I cannot remember,” Roderich hurriedly answered, “but be careful nonetheless. I have to go.” He, too, exited the room. Standing in the centre of the room, Dietrich sniffed the air. “It smells like sex in here,” He murmured to himself, moving towards the basins. He checked all of the taps; none of them appeared to be broken. His eyes flickered back to the doorway through which both men had rushed, narrowing in suspicion.

.

.

.

“Ah, Herr Edelstein, there you are,” Mr Williams smiled gently, having intercepted Roderich outside his classroom. “Yes, Mr Williams?” The Canadian appeared rather unsettled. A letter was handed to him. “Reception requested that this letter be given to you. It arrived earlier today.”

The envelope was a dirty brown colour; there was no stamp on it. Indeed, there stood his name, in shaky handwriting. Roderich had no idea from whom this could be. “Thank you, sir.”

As Williams departed, Roderich faced the wall outside the classroom, clutching the letter between his thumbs and forefingers. Hastily, he ripped it open and unfolded the equally scrappy paper inside. 

Only he could not understand a word of it; it appeared to be written in the Cyrillic alphabet.

Beneath the brief paragraph, there was a seal of some kind: a circle, with more writing around it, inside which a hand held a flag with a skull and crossbones on it. Roderich doubted that it came from pirates.

His heart filled with dread.  _ Could this be what I think it is? _ He spun, racing back upstairs, practically sliding down corridors until he reached the dorm room opposite his own, rapping his knuckles on the door.

Within seconds, Gilbert appeared, having combed his hair to an acceptable standard, a confused expression on his face.  Roderich said nothing, but instead held the open letter before him. The German’s white eyebrows knitted together. 

The Austrian stepped past him into the room, closing it behind him.

“...Come in.”

Gilbert’s room was identical to his; save for more clutter. How a person with less belongings than he could make more of a pigsty out of his room was a mystery to Roderich, who promptly seated himself on the chair by the desk. “Well?”

Sighing, Gilbert rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “Well, it’s definitely from them.”

“...I had worked  _ that _ out already,” Came the heated retort, “I do not know many Slavic people, Beilschmidt. Can you read it?”  Giving Roderich a restrained look of anger, the Berliner leaned on the wardrobe, arms crossed behind his head. He nodded. 

“What does it say?” Asked Roderich, handing the letter over once Gilbert gestured for it. 

After skimming over it, Gilbert translated, “‘ _ Dear Mr Edelstein, it is most obvious that you have never before engaged with an organisation beyond the law. For your sake, it is better to keep it that way. Beilschmidt would do well to keep his distance, otherwise the both of you may just wind up dead. We will know if you involve the Austrian authorities. _ ’ The after note is -‘ _ P.S. Eisenstadt is a beautiful area. The Edelstein Manor is particularly stunning. _ ’ _ ”  _

Roderich’s heart was pounding; he felt lightheaded. Clearly, he was being blackmailed into silence.“Oh, God. I never gave anyone my name, Gilbert, yet these people know where I live! Where my parents live!” He slammed a fist onto the desk. “What language is it, Russian?”

“Serbian.”

The answer made Roderich hesitate; he was not politically active himself, but he was vaguely aware of the Austro-Serbian conflict that had been building up for a few years now, due to his father’s anti-Serbian tangents whenever the topic was broached.  “ _ What on Earth are those Serbs playing at _ ,” He would yell whilst reading the newspaper, “ _ they are owned by the Hapsburg Empire now. They had best calm themselves before we go to war. _ ”  Roderich did not know the intricacies of the feud, but he understood that receiving a letter from Serbs most likely indicated forthcoming misfortune. “How come you can read Serbian, Gilbert?” He may as well buy a shovel if he was going to start digging his grave.

“And whose symbol is this? I have never come across it before.”

Chewing his lip, Gilbert looked at his feet. His voice became barely audible. “...I learned Serbian, when I was part of a vigilante terrorist organisation. It is called the Black Hand.”

Ah. That name rang a bell. Roderich had heard of this group before; they had appeared in the national newspapers many times in recent years, suspected of assassinating several important Austrian political and monarchical figures. Herr Edelstein had mentioned that the Black Hand had claimed responsibility for the deaths of Serbian royalty King Alexander Obrenović and Queen Draga in 1903, due to the family’s alliance with Austria-Hungary. “Heavens above… _ You _ were part of the Black Hand?” It was more an exclamation than a question, therefore Gilbert did not answer. 

Then it was the Black Hand who sought the death of Emperor Franz Joseph. “But why might the organisation want the Emperor dead?”

Gilbert made a face. “Come, now, you must know that the Black Hand hates the Habsburg Empire, and anyone allied with them. They want a free Serbia, with no restraints from Austria-Hungary nor Turkey.” At Roderich’s puzzled expression, he elaborated, “The Habsburgs and Ottomans have been restricting the rights of the Serbians for a while, now. They’ve had to be careful lest they antagonise Russia, Serbia’s ally, but at the same time, both monarchies know that if they release the Serbians, there will be an uprising. That’s why they put up with terrorist groups like the Black Hand. It’s not just Serbs, though; Greeks, Bulgarians, Poles, Russians...the Black Hand can’t be too discriminatory about who it recruits now. Especially if their operations are this serious.”

“They need all the men they can get…” Roderich concluded, a headache starting to swell behind his temples. “You seem to be very well-read on this subject.”

“Can’t exactly join a terrorist organisation without learning the politics behind it,” Came the deadpan reply. “Now, we have to dispose of this letter. Nobody else had read it, right?”

“Of course not. Alright, so we should set it on fire -” 

Gilbert tore up the letter, and shoved it his mouth, piece by shredded piece. 

“Why are you eating it?” The brunette demanded. The German spoke around the paper he was chewing. “No fire ‘ere - faster.” He swallowed the remaining scraps with a sound of disgust. “Tastes like moth-eaten slippers.”

Resting his head in his palm, the Austrian noticed several pieces of plain paper lying upon the desk. Each one had a pencil sketch of someone from the Academy upon it. He recognised two drawings near to him. Elizaveta and Mr Williams. “I had no idea you liked to draw,” He commented. Picking up another, he saw Professor Bonnefoy’s shaded face. “You drew Bonnefoy?”

“Hey - I might not like the guy, but he’s a looker.”

A familiar face caught Roderich’s eye; he shuffled the papers around, and lifted out one with his own portrait on it. Turning to look at Gilbert, Roderich glimpsed the slightest blush behind those white locks, but the German only shrugged a shoulder. “What, have you been stunned into silence by my masterpieces?”

Quirking a dark eyebrow, the Austrian leant back in the chair, the picture still in his hands. “They are not very good.” Gilbert feigned being shot in the heart, but recovered quickly. “You recognised who they were, though. By the way, have you ever even used a comb? Your hair is so untidy. Especially that annoying cowlick.”

“The pot calling the kettle black.” 

The older man laughed, “Don’t pretend that you have never seen a hypocrite before - there must be mirrors in that manor of yours.”

Roderich chuckled, setting the paper down. It wasn’t too bad a likeness, if he had to admit. He savoured this simple banter, because regardless whether or not he was involved in the political house of cards, it was most likely going to tumble soon.

.

.

.

 


End file.
